Building Bridges
by estrafalaria103
Summary: In a post-apocalyptic world, the Glee kids deal with loss, love, and self-discovery. Finn and Blaine lead a rescue mission, Artie comes into his own, and Sue runs her own underground bunker.
1. Quinn

13:57

**A/N: If you haven't read my earlier story "Beyond the End" go read that first. I'm pretty sure this will make absolutely NO SENSE otherwise.**

**Ah-Hem: Also, if you were a fan of that and wanted more of the same. . .well, this isn't necessarily more of the same. Experimenting with tense and PoV. So this is even more angsty. It is, however, better plotted out. 11 chappies, so get ready for a bit of a haul.**

Quinn pulls up in front of a small, two storied house deep in the Lima suburbs. She glances at it out the passenger window as she puts the car in park. It looks the same as any of the other cookie cutter houses in the subdivision: small porch, two windows on the first floor, three on the second. Two car garage. The immaculately cared for garden and intricately painted mailbox set it apart. That, and the fact that it is a garish pink hue.

Figures that Rachel Berry, diva extraordinaire and gold star enthusiast lives in a flaming pink house.

Nobody says anything for a long moment, because really, what is there to say? Quinn feels particularly apart. She's not friends with Rachel – she never has been, and she doubts she ever will be. They're too different. Even so, she doesn't envy the other girl this moment. Everything will change the minute that Rachel rings that doorbell – the uncertainty will disappear and, let's be honest, things will probably get a lot worse.

Quinn's never been a terribly optimistic person, and the whole Apocalypse hasn't changed that.

It's Blaine, unsurprisingly, who breaks the silence with a carefully cleared throat and a cheery "your house is lovely, Rachel."

Quinn can barely keep from laughing at that, but she does manage to restrain herself enough that it comes out as a harsh snort, instead of the outrights guffaws that Sanatana and Puck give out. Even Kurt sniffs in disdain.

Rachel, however, doesn't react. Quinn glances in the rearview mirror at the other girl. She looks terrified, small white teeth chewing away at a bottom lip, brown eyes so wide that the whites can be seen. She looks more like a chipmunk then ever.

Finn reaches out and grabs Rachel's hand, carefully threading his fingers through. "Hey," he whispers. "You don't have to do this. We can just leave. . .go to Puck's place, or Quinn's. If it's too hard. . ."

Since when, Quinn wonders, has Finn Hudson become empathetic?

"No," Rachel shakes her head, and strands of brown hair whip into her boyfriend's face, eliciting another giggle from Santana in the very back of the car. "It's worse. The not knowing."

Quinn doesn't agree with that, because quite frankly, she's perfectly happy not knowing where her parents are, or whether they are even alive. Her world won't be shattered if she finds out that they became sick with radiation, or starved to death, or even were standing directly beneath a bomb that was dropped. They were far from the best parents – her father especially – and she isn't sure she wants to see them again, ever.

But she can understand where Rachel is coming from, because two years ago she'd have been in the same situation. Back before the baby, before Finn and Puck made a mess of her life, back when she'd been a Daddy's girl and a little angel.

A lifetime ago.

Finally Rachel nods her head, decisive, and opens the door. She steps out, and Quinn thinks she's going to go for it, really just walk all the way up to the porch and ring the doorbell. But she doesn't. She makes it one step, and then just stands there. Her shoulders drop and her spine slumps. Quinn watches for a moment, and maybe, just maybe she's feeling an inkling of smug superiority, because she has never, and will never, be as weak as Rachel Berry is acting right then.

But then she remembers that they are supposed to be friends, and the superiority goes right out the window.

"Come on, guys," Quinn says, opening her own door and walking out.

The other kids pile out, too, quiet and somber. Finn stands beside Rachel, and takes her hand again. Without a word, Kurt stands on her left. Rachel smiles up at the two of them, tears in her eyes. Quinn stuffs her own hands deep in her pockets.

The doorbell sings out with the tune of "Defying Gravity". Santana smirks again, but this time Puck elbows her in the ribs and shakes his head. Quinn is feeling butterflies in her stomach now, and almost wants to grab Rachel by the sleeve and drag her back into the car. She wants to say "not knowing is better, it is" and "ignorance is bliss and"

The door doesn't open. Rachel moves to ring it again, but Finn grabs her hand and shakes his head.

"It's your house," he says, not unkindly. "Let's just go in."

The front door isn't locked, and they all troop in together. The smell hits them all at once, like it's rushing out at them, a tidal wave. Quinn almost gags with the strength of it. Santana ducks out immediately, gasping outside.

"Oh my God." Rachel is shaking, and Quinn just wants to say "I told you so," but she knows it wouldn't be constructive. Finn leads Rachel outside, enfolding her within his arms. She's so tiny that she disappears beneath the bulk of her boyfriend.

"Kurt, Quinn, wait outside," Blaine says. His voice is low and choked, and when Quinn glances at him, he's looking away. She thinks he might be crying, but she can't be sure. Puck nods his head, his jaw set. It's the same look he wears before a solo, or a big play in football. Quinn swallows heavily, and grabs Kurt's sleeve.

"Come on," she says. Kurt looks like he's going to protest, but then a tiny breeze wafts through the front door, and the smell is back again, stronger than ever. He pales, and nods his head.

"Okay," he says, and they back slowly out.

Rachel is still buried beneath Finn. Kurt walks over to them, places a hand on Rachel's back, and begins rubbing it in circles, soothingly. Quinn, feeling awkward, stands to the side, her arms wrapped around her middle.

"That was disgusting," Santana sneers. "Worse than the hospital."

Quinn nods, because really, what else could she say?

"Sucks for the midget," Santana mutters. "Where're Blaine and Puck? I just want to get out of here."

Quinn doesn't answer. She can't. The thought of what the boys are doing – what they're seeing, and smelling, and – oh _God_ – touching. . .her stomach is roiling and she bites down on her tongue hard, willing the bile away. She will not vomit, she will not. . .

Is this what will happen at her house? Because she doesn't want to go if it is, she just wants to go back to the bunker and stay with Sue, and the glee kids, and the Cheerios. Why had she thought it was a good idea to come on this stupid road trip, anyway? She should be sitting in quarantine reading stories to Brittany, or helping Artie with his physical therapy.

She's pulled out of her reverie by a tug on the end of her scarf. Looking up she sees Kurt. His eyes have a suspicious sheen to them, but his cheeks are dry. "We're going to go wait in the car, where it's warm," he says, and Quinn nods, just once, before following him. Santana doesn't moving.

"Aren't you coming?" Quinn asks. The other girl shakes her head.

"No," she says. "I can't. . .I don't. . ."

"Okay," Quinn says, because she doesn't know what else to say. Not when Santana is standing there looking lost, and Berry is breaking down.

Quinn slides into the driver's seat again, and closes her eyes. She breathes in, slow through her nose, out through her mouth, the way Coach Sylvester taught her so many years ago. It works. It always works, and her stomach calms down, and her mouth clears. It's not a surprise, she reminds herself. She expected this. They all did.

Except, based on the sniffing noises coming from behind her, and Finn's whispered condolences, she realizes that some of them still believe in happy endings. And she can deal with Berry having a breakdown, but she's not sure she'll be able to deal with Puck doing the same, or Blaine. She reaches out and holds the wheel. It's comforting, solid. Something she can touch without it screaming out in pain or crumbling before her eyes. She sighs, closes her eyes. But it's dangerous there, in the darkness, because all she can see are brown eyes and tiny hands. She jerks back again, eyes wide open.

She turns on the radio, but the airwaves are silent. No DJs to start up playlists, or put on commercials. She flicks through idly. There has to be at least one station set to play automatically. But there's nothing, just silence and static. And the sound of Rachel still crying behind her.

It's about five minutes later when Santana climbs back into the car. She doesn't say a word as she sits in the middle, just props her hand on her fist and stares out the window. Blaine and Puck are right behind her. Blaine is twisting his arm in its socket as though it pains him, and Puck's face is blanker than Quinn's ever seen it, and she had History with him last semester.

"Is everything okay?" Quinn says, and winces as the words leave her mouth.

"No," Blaine mutters.

"My house is two blocks away," Puck says.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Finn says. "I mean. . .maybe we should just go back. Maybe they'll come find us. Maybe. . ."

"No." Blaine's voice has gained strength, and he twists in the front to stare back at Finn. Quinn pulls back onto the street. She's glad that there aren't cars blocking the way around here, not like there were on the highway driving to Ohio. All of the Lima residents, apparently, pulled over to the side. Maybe they didn't even know about the bombs here, she thought. Maybe it was just radiation. Maybe. . .

"No," Blaine says again. "You can go back, if you want, Finn. We can drop you off. But I'm not going back underground. I need to know. And they deserve that. Anyone who is still alive deserves a rescue party. I won't force you to join me, but I'm not going back."

"Turn left at the stop sign," Puck says, and Quinn has to wonder how he knows the way from Berry's to his own so well. She doesn't say anything, though, just turns the wheel. They pull up to another cookie-cutter house, though this one is smaller and more worn down. It's a dull brown color, a welcome reprieve from the garishness of Rachel's.

"I've got this," Puck says. "You guys can stay here."

But once again, everyone climbs out of the car. Quinn wraps a scarf around her hand, and loops her arm over Rachel's shoulder. "We'll stay here," she says. "But Noah. . .if you need to talk, or just get out of there. . ."

"Please," Puck says with a smirk. "I'm a total BAMF. I got this."

But Quinn knows him, and she knows that the way his left leg is twitching, and his jaw is trembling that he very much doesn't got this. And she wants to reach out and give his hand a squeeze, or his cheek a kiss, or just to rub her hand through the short hair of his Mohawk, but she doesn't.

"Come on," Finn says awkwardly. Santana loops an arm around Puck's. This time she enters the house with them.

Quinn stiffens when Rachel leans into her side. Frantically she checks for anywhere that cloth isn't covering her skin, and is relieved when Berry just closes her eyes and sighs.

"You're so warm," she says. "It's nice."

And okay, maybe Quinn was wrong earlier. Maybe they can be friends.

Only a few minutes pass before Santana returns, holding hands with a small, mousy looking girl. It takes Quinn a moment to recognize her.

"Hi," the girl says nervously. "Noah said to come out and wait for the car. I don't know what he's doing in the house."

"Hi. . .Sarah. . ." Quinn says, desperately praying that is the name of Puck's younger sister. It must be right, because the girl smiles.

"Do you know what's going on?" she asks. "Mom hasn't been home for two weeks, and Noah's been gone. The school bus didn't come to pick me up, and the TV doesn't work, and nobody's at home."

Quinn's mouth is slowly dropping open as she stares at the girl. She can't be more than twelve, yet she's been alone since the bomb's dropped? With the same nonchalance that Puck often demonstrates, Sarah pops a bubble in her gum. "What's wrong with you?" she asks Rachel.

Quinn glances over Sarah's head to see the boys leaving the house. Puck's face is worried, while Blaine wears a carefully constructed mask.

"Your mom?" Quinn asks. Puck sighs and shrugs.

"I don't know. Sarah says she's been missing this whole time. We could go look at her work but. . ."

"Well, I'm glad your okay," Rachel says, patting Sarah on the head awkwardly. The two are almost the same height.

"Oh my God," Sarah rolls her eyes and turns to her brother. "Noah, please tell me you aren't dating her again just because she's Jewish."

"Please," Puck says. "Give me some credit. Your brother is getting plenty of post-Apocalyptic ass."

"Gross," Sarah says with a wrinkled nose, and Quinn is more than willing to agree with her. Completely unnecessary. Puck, however, just grins, and grabs his sister into a rough hug. Rachel is looking at them with a sad expression, which Quinn doesn't miss, and Santana is hopping a little from one foot to the other.

"Okay, come on," Quinn says. "We should be able to get to Santana's before it's dark."

Blaine nods. "Yeah," he says. "It might be a good idea to clean out this area, and then stay for the night underground. We can head to New York tomorrow."

"What about your house?" Kurt asks. Blaine's expression tightens, and he shakes his head.

"We don't have to go there," he says. "I doubt my parents would be home, anyway. It would just be a waste of time."

Kurt looks troubled, but doesn't say anything else. Quinn is glad that nobody mentions her home. Instead, they all just climb into the van again, Sarah, Puck, Blaine, and Kurt miraculously fitting into the back seat together. Quinn glances in the rearview mirror. Sarah is half on Puck's lap, half on Blaine, and Kurt is pressed hard into the other boys' side. Quinn can't quite keep the little half smile off her face as she notices Kurt and Blaine sneaking sideways glances at one another, or the light flush across their faces.

"Um. . .just drive toward the railroad tracks," Santana says.

"Seriously?" Quinn asks.

"Please, bitch, I told you I'm from the wrong side of the tracks," Santana says. "This ho don't lie."

**A/N: Poor, poor Rachel. That sucks. Like, hardcore. Um. . .reviews are love, as ever, as are favorites and alerts. **

**Coming Soon: Santana's house, one of our merry band returns to Sue's Underground Bunker, and Puck puts the moves on the wrong lady.**


	2. Blaine

13:57

**A/N: Ahh, that angst, the angst!**

**Thanks to all of the readers that I carried over from "Beyond the End" – your continued support means the world! And to those of you who are new – I applaud you, because seriously, how do you know what's going on?**

**I'm going to try and do updates every other day, but no promises. School is crazy right now, and I have to get a memo out for work, so. . . no promises. But I will try.**

It's nice in the back seat, squished between Puck and Kurt, with Sarah halfway wedged in. He feels like his cocooned in, and frankly, it's not entirely unlike some dreams he had when he was first hitting puberty. It's warm, and safe, and he thinks that Kurt is even humming a little beneath his breath.

It is also tremendously awkward, though, and not just because Sarah keeps twisting around to look out the windows. Blaine _knows_ that Kurt keeps glancing at him from beneath lowered eyelids, and he _knows_ the reason the other boy is blushing is because their legs are pressed tight against one another, and Blaine's hand is resting on the other boy's thigh. It's awkward being the object of someone else's affection, especially because he doesn't know how he feels.

And Kurt has said all those words you're never supposed to say – love, and soul mate, and forever. As if those words don't panic Blaine enough on a regular day, ever since the bombs they are a hundred times worse. Because he knows that there isn't going to be a forever, that chances are that there won't even be a very long. And if he's being perfectly honest with himself – and Blaine Anderson tries desperately, on every given day, to be perfectly honest with himself – that's part of the reason that he wants to get on the road again. Because taking in more radiation. . .well, it just means everything will be over sooner, doesn't it?

They're crossing over railroad tracks, into what Blaine can very clearly identify as the trashy end of town. Not that Lima is anything great to begin with – he winces a little, thinking of what these kids would think of his house. Still, even for Lima, the cracked shutters and the houses without foundations are pretty ghetto. But Santana is leaning forward pointing, so they're clearly going in the right direction.

"I thought she was all talk," Puck mutters. Blaine glances at him, confused. "I mean, Santana always said she was from Lima Heights. But she bought herself jewelry and a boob job, so I figured. . .all talk, no action."

"Really?" Blaine asks with one eyebrow raised. Santana's always seemed to him like plenty of action. Puck grins and reaches out a hand to fistbump, but Blaine is kind of awkwardly squished in the middle, and he's not really sure how to maneuver his hand off of Kurt's leg.

"Sweet," Puck grins. "You're totally right. Santana's always up for some action."

They pull in next to one of the nicer houses. The mailbox is crooked, like somebody backed into it, but the yard is well-kept and the paint isn't peeling too badly. Santana is out of the car and at the front door before Quinn's even finished putting the car in park. Blaine glances at Puck, his own panic mirrored in the other boys' eyes.

He shoves forward, pushing Kurt back hard against the backseat of the van, and almost tripping over Rachel. He overbalances, and can't right himself – not when he's missing his fucking arm – and falls out of the van, landing awkwardly on his stomach. A wave of pain rockets across his chest and down his side, and he bites hard on his tongue to keep from crying out. He tastes blood, but the coppery tang helps him to focus. He forces the blackness away from his vision, and pushes himself to his knees.

"Hey, you okay?"

It takes a moment to place the voice, and the face, and Blaine curses the confusion that always comes with these moments of near unconsciousness. He doesn't think anyone's noticed them – he's almost sure – but he's worried that one time the name won't come fast enough, or the black stars will win out. Not today, though. Finn reaches out and clasps him around the chest, helping him to his feet.

"Thank you," Blaine says, dusting off the top of his pants.

"No problem," Finn says, his face all squinchy. Blaine knows that he doesn't know Finn well – doesn't really know any of the New Directions kids well – but he knows him well enough to recognize the squinted eyes and scrunched nose as signs that Finn is thinking. So Blaine just claps the other boy on the back and hurries to the front door.

Santana has opened it, and is already inside by the time he gets there. He takes a deep breath before entering. No matter how many times he smells that awful combination of rot and decay, he can't get used to it. And with the smell comes the memories of people. Those couples at the hotel, Rachel's dads – he forces it back.

There's no smell in Santana's place. A brief prayer – maybe this will turn out like it did for Puck. But Santana looks absolutely devasted.

"Hey," Blaine says softly. "Maybe it will be okay. Maybe they found somewhere safe, like we did."

Santana ignores him, walking through the house, trailing her hand over the counter, the table, the couch. Blaine glances around.

It's not what he'd have expected from the girl. The fridge is covered in macaroni art and glitter. A haphazard collection of shoes is next to the door, and toys are scattered throughout the living room. Santana is holding a sheet of paper, clearing her throat nervously.

"Hey, babe, what's that?" Puck asks. He walks around Blaine, and leans over Santana's shoulder. He whistles low, and grins at her. "Sweet," he says. "Who's Aunt Frida?"

"Ew, Puck, trying brushing your teeth," Santana says, shoving him away. Blaine notices the way the paper trembles in her hand. "She's our neighbor."

Puck laughs, and drops a kiss onto her shoulder before backing off. "All right," he says. "Let's go meet Aunt Frida!"

Puck and Finn head out the door, but Santana remains still a moment, still staring at the paper. Kurt has come in by this time, and Quinn as well. They're just standing in the door, neither saying anything. Blaine walks up to her, puts his arm on her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" he asks, and it's stupid, because nobody is all right, but he doesn't know what to do except express his concern. Santana lets out a long, low breath.

"I'm fine, fairyboy," she says harshly, and Blaine's lips twitch a little as he fights a smile. They both have their defense mechanisms, he knows, and both of them have their walls up as high as they go. He's practically oozing charm and she's resisting all that she can.

"Courage," he tells her. Out the corner of his eye he sees Kurt straighten up a little. Quinn must have poked him, or something, because almost in unison they both spin on their heel and turn out the door. Santana swats his arm away and follows after them.

The trailer next door is a disaster zone, even from the outside. Toys litter the yard, and Blaine is fairly certain that some of those toys are meant for dogs, or cats. The kids are standing there uncertainly, staring at the mess with varying expressions of pity and disbelief. Quinn's mouth is a strange, angry slash across her face, and Rachel looks ready to cry again. Only Santana looks completely composed as she walks up the cement blocks that pass as a stoop and knocks on the door. It's less than a minute before the door is open, and a pair of five year olds launch themselves at Santana. Blaine can't hide the smile of relief that washes over his face.

"Are those Santana's sisters?" Finn asks. Rachel sidles over and fits herself under his arm again.

"I think that's fairly obvious," she says. He places a gentle kiss on the top of her head. Blaine, meanwhile, walks forward and helps pry one of the kids off Santana's leg.

"I'll help!" Puck says hastily, and moves to grab the others. Blaine notices the arch smile on Santana's face, the renewed sparkle in her eye, and wonders about it, before he notices where Puck's hands are placed – high on her thigh. With a choking sound, Blaine scoops his kid in to his chest and steps back. . .

where he promptly tilts to the side, overbalancing _again_ and wishing yet again that he had two arms, because the ground is coming up toward him awfully quickly. He knews its going to hurt, so he tightens his grip on the child, and closes his eyes in anticipation of the pain.

Which never comes, though there is a strange tightness around his neck. He opens his eyes, and finds that the front of his shirt is tightly clenched in Puck's hand. The boy, meanwhile, has his other arm full of Santana and five year old.

"Um, thanks," Blaine says, setting the kid down before pulling himself upright again. His shoulders, which had already been aching since Rachel's house – and he will _not_ allow his mind to go back there, not now, not until he's alone and nobody can see the inevitable breakdown – are screaming at him, now. He wonders if he can convince Kurt to give him a massage.

But now there are two more faces in the doorway, and Santana is visibly relaxing.

"Hey, _lindos_," she says, and this is a familiar Santana, at least to Blaine. This is the Santana of their late night chat, with the quiet chocolate eyes and the shy smiles. He glances at her friends, all of whom are staring with their mouths slightly open. It isn't the Santana they know, and Blaine feels a sharp pang in his chest. He knows what it's like to have a secret. He just wishes that Santana didn't feel the need to keep hers hidden away.

The kids gather around their older sister, and hold her tight. She pats each one on the head, speaking strings of quick Spanish that are too throaty and fast for Blaine to understand. Blaine steps back, still trying to loosen up his shoulders.

"What the fuck are those things?" Puck asks from his side. Blaine glances up at him, a little amused by the way the other boys' mouth is practically touching the ground.

"They're children, Noah," Quinn says with a sneer. "You were one once, too."

"No, I know that," Puck rolls his eyes. "I just mean. . .they seem to really like Satan, over there."

"There's more to her than you all know," Blaine says, and they turn to stare at him. They look. . .angry, almost, and Blaine is reminded yet again that he's not one of them. That no matter how much they've all gone through together, he doesn't have the years of knowledge that come with going to the same school, and he isn't part of their dysfunctional family. But then Santana walks up to them, with the twins entangled in her legs, and holding the hand of each of the older children.

"They said that Aunt Frida is sick," Santana says. "Can somebody go help her out? I kind of have my hands full."

Blaine wants to volunteer, if only to get away from that sickening pressure of loneliness, but he knows that he's practically useless, so instead he wanders over to one of the cars, stranded on the side of the road. Because there's no way that they're going to fit everybody back into the van.

The key is in the ignition, which is good, but the car doesn't start when he turns it. So he tries again. And then once more for good measure. He glances out the window, and everybody is still standing around in that tight little circle. He wonders where the Warblers are, if they're even still alive. If they are, Wes is probably still carrying around his gavel, and David is probably studying for the History final that he'll never have to take. Thad is probably disgusted that people aren't paying attention to dress codes, and Jeff is. . .

He doesn't realize he's crying until he notices the droplet on the steering wheel. He takes a deep breath, because this is all just too ridiculous. He'll pop open the hood and take a look. He doesn't know a lot about cars, but he knows enough to check the oil and. . .well, that's really about it, so hopefully the car just needs an oil change.

He pops the hood and walks over to lift it. But it's missing one of those hook thingies to hold it up, so he's stuck with his one arm lifted over his head, staring at the car's engine. And he has no idea what he's looking at.

"What are you doing?"

It's Kurt next to him, of course. Blaine glances over, sees Santana and Rachel loading the kids into the car, and Puck supporting a sickly looking, middle aged woman. He sighs, and glances at Kurt.

"I was going to look at the engine," he says. "The car won't stop. But there's nothing to hold the hood up and. . ."

Kurt doesn't say anything, he just leans over and fiddles with the. . .well, Blaine isn't sure what it is, but it's next to the windshield fluid container, and that's about as far as his car knowledge works.

"Put the hood down," Kurt says. "And try the car again."

So Blaine does, with a bit of a _clud_ because he's still kind of klutzy and off balance. Shock reverberates through his arm, and an answering phantom tingle matches it on his left side. He doesn't blink back tears, because he's not going to break down, dammit, and does as Kurt says. This time, when he turns the ignition, the car starts.

So Blaine climbs out, and Kurt climbs in, and a few minutes later the other boys have joined them, and they're driving back to the underground bunker. Kurt is chattering away about something, but Puck and Finn are both uncharacteristically silent. And Blaine is trying to figure out how he can sneak out of the bedroom that he shares with Artie, because he knows that the nightmares will be coming back, and he's ashamed to share that with anyone, especially with these new people who are most definitely _not his friends_.

But then Kurt's hand is on his, fingers forcing their way into the little spaces between his own, and when he turns to the side, the other boy is smiling at him. And it's nice, because it's not a lovesick smile, or a romantic smile, it's just a nice, sad smile that says "I understand." Blaine looks down at where their hands are interlocked, and gives it a slight squeeze. Kurt doesn't react at all, not even a blink, and with a sigh, Blaine remembers that he can't feel anything.

So he stares out the window at the dark clouds that will never rain and wishes, not for the first time, that it would downpour.

**A/N: Poor, poor Blaine. He's so angsty. Dark things in store. . .he was just too composed in the last story. It's time to rage! Also, I like the idea of Santana taking care of the little kids. **

**Coming soon: Sam wakes up! (For realz, I promise: next chapter!) Artie/Brittany/Tina/Mike Chang! One of the merry band decides to stay in Sue Sylvester's CrazyAss Bunker! The others sneak out before ALMIGHTYDADBURTHUMMEL catches them. Also. . .Mike glows.**

**Reviews, as ever, are love!**


	3. Artie

13:57

**A/N: Wow. . .looooong hiatus. Sorry about that! Apparently I can only work on this story while there are no new episodes. Sad.**

**ALSO: in the six episodes between the Superbowl and Original Song, all of my canon relationships have been destroyed! GAH! So. . .sorry about that. Oh well, the show must go on.**

Artie feels like a ghost.

He has for a while now. He used to think it was because of the chair. People wouldn't see him because he was so low. They'd leave him out of things because he simply couldn't do them. It wasn't anyone's fault – it wasn't even his fault. It was just the chair. They'd forget to get him a bus that he could get onto, forget that he wouldn't want to play a game of pick-up basketball.

But he's always been a ghost, even in Glee. Everyone always talked about Finn being the lead male soloist, but when a baritone was needed, Artie was there. And he hadn't minded. He really hadn't.

But now it's different. The chair is gone, and he still feels like a ghost.

With a sigh he glances over at Brittany, and squeezes her hand. She smiles, faintly, in her sleep, and Artie's heart breaks a little more. He hates to admit it, but he's kind of _glad_ about the bombs. He's glad that he can walk again. But he feels so, so guilty feeling glad when his beautiful girlfriend is so sick. He glances over at the other occupied beds. Mike and Tina are curled up around each other, so close that it looks like they're both glowing. Sam is as still as ever.

Artie presses a gentle kiss to the back of Brittany's hand before strapping on his arm supports. He can't really walk – not yet, his muscles are still to weak – but he can hobble around now. It's two a.m. – time for his nightly haunting.

Coach Sylvester has them all on specialized schedules, of course, to facilitate bathroom schedules and kitchen duties. Artie doesn't mind all that much – he's always been a fan of schedule, and believes that a good routine is the best way to get through the day. But he hasn't really been sleeping much, lately. He actually can't remember getting a good night's sleep since they left the hotel, and entered the bunker. He thinks that it's probably because he's so worried about Brittany, though maybe it's just the fact that, for whatever reason, surrounded by concrete he feels more scared than he did when they were just a bunch of lost kids in the woods.

He follows the same path every night. He begins by passing by the Hudmels – Carole and Burt's room, first. It's quiet, again. . .they've worn themselves out yelling at Finn and Kurt – more at Kurt, really, because Finn just looked too confused when he was being berated. Everyone had arrived back just before dinner, along with Santana's little siblings and Puck's sister – all of whom had earned their own special quarantine.

Artie pauses for a minute outside Finn's door. . .it's quiet now, but he's sure that if he snuck in he would see two bodies huddled in the narrow, military-style bed. Rachel had been glued to Finn's side when they'd arrived back. She'd barely spoken at dinner. Artie had never really been her friend – he still doesn't feel all that friendly with her – so he hadn't felt it was his place to ask.

A little further and he comes to Kurt's room. He hears hushed voices inside. He knows that he should keep walking, but he's still a little voyeuristic at heart. Besides, Artie knows that if he doesn't take things into his own hands, nobody will tell him what's going on.

It isn't hard to identify the voices – Kurt's, of course, and the soft, melodic tones of Quinn, and then there's Blaine's, a little throaty and hoarse.

"won't even be home," Blaine is saying, and Artie gently lowers himself to the floor. Only going those few meters is hard, and his breath is coming fast and raspy. His legs burn. "It would be a waste of time."

"Same with my mom," Quinn says. "Really, Kurt, I think we're all better off if we just head back to New York and try to find Blaine's friends."

"No," Kurt says, and he sounds determined. "It might be a far shot, but it's better to know. Besides, it won't take that much time. . ."

"Kurt. . ."

There's a pause, and Artie tries to imagine what's going on inside. Usually his imagination is pretty explicit – he can visualize entire flash mobs and dance sequences – but he's totally out of his depth here. He doesn't even know if they're sitting on the same bed – if they're even sitting. He tries to imagine what they're wearing, but trying to imagine one of Kurt's outfits just hurts his head

The silence stretches on. Artie considers leaving. . .he doesn't want to get caught eavesdropping, and that heavy feeling in his eyelids is warning him that maybe this time he might actually fall asleep. He's drawing his knees up to his chest when Quinn finally breaks the silence.

"Let's just go now. None of us are going to sleep anyway."

"I'll go wake Finn and the others," Kurt says. Artie is scrambling now, because he doesn't want to get caught, and he's half-crawling, half-skidding down the hallway before the end of the conversation. He's back in quarantine, and Kurt's door hasn't even opened. Artie lets out a long sigh

And the lights go out.

It's a little thing, at night in the bunker. There's only the emergency lights on, anyway, dim, fluorescent monstrosities that are barely visible. Besides, he's in a room with Mike Chang, who emits more green light than any number of lightbulbs. It's not so much the lights going out that Artie notices.

It's that the beeping stops.

All of the machines in quarantine – strange gadgets from hospitals that someone Coach Sylvester managed to steal – simultaneously stop. Artie slides to the floor, and his mouth drops open.

He realizes, with a start, that he might be the only one awake to notice the lights going out. Except for the three he'd been eavesdropping on, of course, though for all he knows they're already on their way out the door, headed to God knows where. He feels more like a ghost than ever.

There must be a backup generator. . .Artie finds it hard to believe that Coach Sylvester has stockpiled years of canned and salted food, and stolen IVs and heart monitors from hospitals, but doesn't have a backup generator. So there must be one, but he doesn't now where it is, and he's the only one awake to notice that it needs to be turned on. It's probably not a big deal. Everyone's asleep, so it's not important.

Except that the beeping has stopped.

Brittany's hooked up to an IV, and he doesn't know if that requires electricity or not.

Sam's attached to a heart monitor.

And the air probably has to be recycled, or filtered, or something to keep them all from choking on their own carbon dioxide.

Artie is the only one awake, and the lights have gone out.

He tries to clamber back to his feet, but his legs are so damn tired. And besides, in the dark he won't make it far. He won't even be able to find Coach Sylvester's room. So he does the thing that he knows that he can do. . .he goes back to his chair, and clambers back into it.

It's funny, the way that he immediately melds back into the worn leather, the way it embraces him like a lover. Two weeks ago he'd hated this old thing, and now he nearly cries to be back inside it. He wheels over to the Changs. He stared at them for a moment – they look almost alien in the strange light that Mike is emitting. Tina's face is peaceful now, not screwed up in the pain she seems to be feeling almost constantly when awake. He feels almost guilty when he pulls on Mike's arm, but the silence is getting deafening, and he can't hear the steady drip of Brittany's IV.

"What is it. . .?" Mike mumbles sleepily as he opens his eyes. He coughs twice into his hand, which he balls into a fist. Artie notices him wiping his fist against the sheets, but doesn't say anything.

Instead, he says, "the power is out. I need you to help me find Coach Sylvester."

"I don't know where she is," Mike protests. Artie doesn't say anything. He knows that he doesn't need to. A moment later Mike looks down at his hands, and sighs. "Oh," he says.

They walk slowly. The bunker isn't really made to be handicap accessible, and Mike is still sick and weak. They retrace Artie's steps from earlier in the night. . .past Carole and Burt's room, still silent and still. Past Finn's room, and past Kurt. Artie wants to pause for a moment, to listen and see if they're still there. Mike doesn't stop though, so neither does Artie.

They both head unerringly to Coach Sylvester's room. Everyone knows where it is – right in the middle of the bunker, so she can keep her eye on everything. Though even she can't stay on top of _everything_, Artie thinks wryly. Not the power, not even a couple of errant Glee kids who want to play superhero. Artie thinks that he would like to go with them – he'd go, if they'd asked.

Nobody ever asks.

Sue answers the door on the first knock. She's wearing a track suit – maybe it's a track suit pajama ensemble, Artie isn't really sure – but her hair looks the same as ever, and her eyes are just as alert. He can't tell if they've woken her up or not.

"Stubbly McCripplepants and Glowworm," she says abruptly. "Are you here to tell me why my lights went out?"

"We don't know," Mike says honestly.

"We were hoping there was a backup generator?" Artie adds helpfully.

"Of _course_ there's a backup generator," Sue says. "I don't run a half-assed ship like Glee."

Then she's off, walking at a brisk pace. Mike just waves a hand wearily in front of his face.

"Should we follow her?" he asks. Artie just shakes his head.

"Nah, she'll just insult us more. Let's just head back to the girls."

By the time that they've reached quarantine again, the lights are humming, back to their mild, barely-there illumination. Artie pushes the door open, waits for Mike to grab it, and wheels himself in. He's relieved to hear the steady drip-drip-drip from Brittany's side of the room. There's no beeping from Sam's, though. He glances back at Mike, terrified.

What are they going to tell Quinn?

Mike is wide-eyed, but his mouth is quirking up into a half smile. Artie frowns, but turns back to face the room.

Sam is sitting up on his cot, his ankles crossed neatly beside him, a confused expression across his face. He looks like it's a normal day in math class, not like he's been unconscious for an entire week.

"Hey, guys," Sam says, although he has to cough twice and lick his lips before the words come out. "What's going on? Why are we underground?"

Artie doesn't know what to say, and from the silence behind him, Mike's at an equal loss. Sam frowns even more deeply, a line appearing between his brows.

"Um. . .Mike. . .don't freak out or anything. . .but did you know that you kind of glow?"

**A/N: Not my favorite chapter. Oh well. **

**Coming soon: Kurt learns more about Blaine than Blaine ever wanted him to know. Quinn lets everyone in to her soft, squishy places. One of the merry band decides to stay in the bunker and the road to New York begins! Also, Finn is stupid and Mike glows!**


	4. Kurt

13:57

**A/N: Woot! Two days, two updates! I am on a roll! Also, this story is kind of spiraling out of control (surprise, surprise) so it's looking like it will be more like 15 chappies than 11. Sigh.**

**Also, my new favorite review ever: "Oh my gosh, I hope Artie's all right! He could have been paralyzed!" Giggle, giggle.**

Kurt is pulling the keys out of his pocket when the lights go out. It's not like in the movies – there's no sputtering of lights, no sparks. They don't go out in descending order – there's nothing sad or majestic about it. One minute there are street lights, and the next there aren't. Blaine shuts the door to the bunker, a hard clank that rings with finality. Quinn lets out a long, low breath. She reaches out with gloved hands, and intertwines her fingers with Kurt's.

"Look at the stars," she whispers.

They look up, all three of them, and there are more stars than Kurt ever thought possible. Without a bit of light pollution from anywhere in Lima, they shine with a fierceness that lights a fire in his own heart. _We're here_, the stars say, screaming and finally being heard. _We're here, and we're not going anyway_.

Kurt squeezes Quinn's hand once, gently, before dropping it. Blaine still has one hand on the door, and Kurt knows, just knows, that if they don't get in a car quickly, if the ignition isn't turned on and the wheels don't start rotating, his friend will lose whatever courage and resolution he's managed to scrape together. "Come on," he says. "Let's go."

Quinn climbs into the back seat immediately, leaving Blaine with shotgun. Kurt turns on the radio, hopefully, but nothing comes out. He sighs and turns it off. Silence is better than the static that reminds him of bad zombie movies and slasher films that Finn made him sit through.

"We'll go to Quinn's first," Kurt decides. He's not sure when he became the leader of this mission – he doesn't think he's ever been the leader of anything, but Quinn is practically vibrating with nergous energy, and a near physical stormcloud has taken up residence over Blaine's head. He kind of likes being in charge, and he definitely likes the feel of the car revving, the hum beneath his hands on the wheel. He's always liked driving. . .it calms him down. When he used to go to McKinley the highlight was climbing in the car and driving it. At Dalton there were. . .other highlights.

One of whom currently has his head pressed against the window, staring out morosely. Kurt frowns. He's never seen Blaine like this before – which isn't to say that his friend is always happy, or always smiling. He's seen Blaine frustrated, angry, disappointed. . .but he's never seen him so completely despondent. It's worrisome.

Quinn's voice interrupts his thought process, quiet at first, as she begins giving directions to her house. As they get closer she seems to gain in confidence, and Blaine seems to wake up from whatever stupor he'd fallen into. The houses are getting bigger, Kurt notices. The sidewalks are disappearing, replaced by fences and gates. He turns on his brights, and nearly gasps at the size of some of the mansions. He's never realized that people with this kind of money go to McKinley.

They pull up in front of a particularly impressive house, with a large wraparound porch and meticulous garden. Kurt lifts one eyebrow and turns to smile at Quinn.

"And we didn't have the girl sleep-overs at your place because. . .?"

Quinn ignores him, staring out the window at the house. Her hands are worrying nervously at a loose thread hanging off the end of her coatsleeve. Kurt bites his lip. His friends pretty face in contorted in fear, and he can see tears threatening to fall from her eyes. The starlight reflects and mirrors off her too-bright eyes. There's a clicking sound as Blaine opens the door and steps out. Kurt hurries to follow him.

They stand together, side by side, staring at the house. On second glance, it isn't as perfect as Kurt first thought. It's impersonal. The garden is exactly out of a designer's manual, the colors are warped and faded. The stars and moon are bringing out the beauty in everything around them, but they dull and fade the house in front.

It's with a sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach that Kurt realizes he hasn't been the first one to enter a house. He didn't go to the hospital. He hasn't had to face the reality that this thing, this monstrous thing that's changed all of their lives, has actually killed people. He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat.

"It's okay," Blaine says, his voice soothing and comforting. "You stay here with Quinn. I can check it out."

He starts walking away, and Kurt thinks that he has never seen anything as beautiful or tragic. He knocks on Quinn's window once, mouths "it will be okay", and then skips a little to catch up with Blaine. He grabs the other boy by the wrist.

"I'm coming with you," he says. Blaine smiles a little, and lets out a soft sigh. Kurt melts a little, and how is it fair that after all of the rejection, and all of the friend-zoning, that he still wants to giggle and blush. He blames it on the hormones.

Apparently unable to overcome good breeding and carefully instilled manners, Blaine knocks on the door. Kurt, having been raised by one Burt Hummel, and having been taught that empathy and compassion win over manners any day, just pushes the door open. He just wants to get it over with. Blaine mutters something under his breath, too low and indistinct to make out.

The inside of the Fabray's is as impersonal as the outside. However, Kurt has to admit, the taste is exquisite. The entire interior looks like it came out of a magazine depicting life in the Hamptons. He's a little jealous.

"Mrs. Fabray?" he calls out. Blaine glances at him, a look of surprise flickering across his eyes. Kurt ignores it. They stand uneasily in the doorway for a minute, two, then three. Kurt doesn't know what to do next. They don't have a flashlight, and the power's out.

There's a rustling beside them, and then Quinn is there, shuffling her feet awkwardly. Blaine takes a step away, and Kurt wonders, not for the first time, what she feels like. He's beginning to forget some of the sensations. . .heat, cold, warmth. . .

"She's not here," Quinn says, and Kurt can't tell if her tone is one of relief or sorrow. "I told you she wouldn't be. She works, and she wouldn't just sit in the house all alone."

"We should look around," Blaine says. His lips quirk up in a half smile. "Man, where's Mike Chang when you need him?"

Kurt can't help it. He giggles. He glances at Quinn, sees her mouth is twisted and her chest heaving a little as she tries not to giggle along. Blaine waggles his eyebrows, making one of his numerous goofy faces, and a weight lifts off Kurt's shoulders. He thinks that he remembers being worried about his friend, but it's the shadow of a memory, as Blaine shrugs his shoulders, puts his hands out in front of him, and blindly lurches out into the dark house. Kurt moves to follow him, but Quinn grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him back.

"Wait," she says. "I want to show you something."

Still grasping him by his coat sleeve, she pulls him through the room, walking with confidence. She knows the house, Kurt reminds himself. But he's not sure he could move so certainly in his home, and it's certainly smaller than this. But she knows it, and they dodge around a dining room table, and curve around a plant, and then she's towing him toward what is either a bookcase or a grandfather clock.

It turns out that it's a bookcase, and he feels more than sees Quinn frowning.

"Oh," she muses. "Damn it. You can't really see in this light." Another sigh, and then there's something small being pushed into his hand. "We can look at it later."

Kurt doesn't really like secrets or surprises, and he really just wants to ask what it is. But Quinn can be a diva in her own way, and he knows she won't tell him. Still, he secretly tries to shake it when she's not looking, and when he's sure there isn't a dining room table that he's about to trip into. It never makes a sound.

Quinn is calling for Blaine, who half-stumbles, half-walks down the stairs before joining them at the doorway.

"I'm really sorry your mom's not here," Blaine says, and he puts his hand on Quinn's shoulder. "We might still find her. She might just wander into the bunker one day, none the worse for wear."

Quinn smiles, the tight, worn smile that she wore when she was pregnant, and when she was trying to be prom queen. Kurt hates that smile. But then again, Kurt hates everything that's fake and pretend. He doesn't know why everyone is so damn determined not to cry, so determined to put on a brave front. Quinn isn't fooling him, and neither is Blaine. But he's still holding the strange object in his hand, and they still have to head to Blaine's place, and he thinks that maybe, on the horizon, it's a little lighter than it was before.

"Come on," he says, and his voice is so husky even he doesn't recognize it. Oh my God. . .is my voice changing? Am I _losing_ it? He has to scold himself, because really, how important is singing in this new world, anyway? (So important. Still so very important). Besides, it's not like he has anyone to compete with, not with Rachel gone tone deaf and Mercedes

They climb into the car, Kurt still driving, and Blaine still sitting shotgun. In the back, Quinn curls her feet up under her. She looks so young that way, so innocent. She's looking out the window, and her face is completely devoid of expression.

Blaine hesitates before giving directions. The closer they get to his house, the more the boy changes. He becomes withdrawn, right before Kurt's eyes. The animation drains out of his gestures, and his hazel eyes dim. It's disturbing, until Kurt realizes that he must be nervous, that he must be downright terrified. After all, there's no way to know what they'll find in the house. Maybe his parents will be there, and there will be a reunion like there was for Puck, and for Santana. Maybe nobody will be there. Maybe. . .

Kurt reaches out, and puts a hand on top of Blaine's. The other boy glances down at it, and a soft smile graces his face. "Pull in here," he says.

Kurt looks up with surprise. He's always assumed that Blaine was like him. . .not rich, not poor, just somewhere in between. What he's looking at, however, makes Quinn's house look like a pool house. The driveway itself stretches beneath towering maples and oaks. Kurt is pretty sure his mouth has hit the floor. A thousand puzzle pieces are flying through his head, and he can't fit them all back together. Blaine went to public school. . .why had he gone to public school, when it's so obvious he could do more?

The garage is detached from the house, and Blaine instructs Kurt to stop halfway there. Massive Greek columns seem to hold up a roof, four stories about the ground. The car is idling, and there is definitely the faintest hint of dawn coming from the east. Kurt coughs, and takes the key out of the car. Blaine takes a deep breath and steps out.

All three of them walk up to the house together, shoulder to shoulder. They stand in front of the massive, double French doors, and even Blaine looks confused.

"This was a waste of time," he says. "There's no way they're home. There's no way. . ."

Quinn pushes the doors open and walks in, leaving the two boys no other option but to follow. Kurt reaches down and grabs his friends hand, interlacing their fingers. It still amazes him how well their hands fit together, knuckles brushing against one another gently. He wishes they'd done this more, before, when he would have enjoyed the warmth and the sensation. Now he does it just to comfort Blaine, and just to watch the way their hands swing together. His stomach flipflops uncomfortably.

The entryway seems to be marbled, and their feet thud against it, sending a dull ringing through the mansion. There are vases of dying flowers, and Kurt realizes, a little uncomfortably, that it feels more like a funeral home than a real house. He sniffs the air delicately, but all he can smell is the faint scent of decay from the flowers.

"Mother?" Blaine calls. His voice echoes. "Mother? Father?"

Impersonal words, Kurt thinks. Titles, not names. Blaine steps forward a little more, tugging Kurt along with him. Quinn follows at a distance.

They walk through the house like that, Blaine in the lead, calling out every minute or so. Kurt wants to say that it's useless, that it's over, but there's a sick fascination in walking through Blaine's home. There aren't many pictures – one or two, of a tall, austere looking man, and a curly-haired sprite of a woman. Blaine has his father's eyes, maybe. Kurt can't decide. They're the same hazel hue, with flecks of green and gold, but Blaine's sparkle, whereas his father's just seem cold and flat.

But it's not fair to compare a photo to a living person, Kurt reminds himself harshly. He's sure that Blaine's father must be a lovely man.

They're in the kitchen, and it's an impersonal as anything. Kurt wants to look in the fridge, in the cabinets, to see what a family that lives in a place like this eats. He notices something strange as they walk through. He glances at Quinn – she's noticed as well.

"Blaine," he says, catching the other boys' attention. "Why are there locks on some of the cabinets?"

Blaine glances back over his shoulder, into the kitchen, but doesn't stop walking. His brow furrows in confusion, dark eyebrows pulling down over his eyes.

"I don't. . .maybe my sister was bringing over her baby. Baby-proofing, I guess."

"Oh," Kurt says. He doesn't think that he's ever heard of using actual locks that require actual keys to keep children out of cabinets, but then, he hasn't spent much time around children. Maybe it's something that is done.

The little locks reappear from time to time, as they go through the house. A cabinet here, a drawer there. The medicine cabinets in the bathrooms. Until they enter the master suite, and Blaine walks unswervingly toward the bathroom. He's not calling out names anymore, just walking with a purpose and determination. As they step onto tiled floor, he drops Kurt's hand for the first time. The medicine cabinet in this room isn't locked. Blaine opens it, and pulls out a few orange containers.

"What are those?" Quinn asks, leaning around, obviously trying to catch a glimpse of the prescription labels. Blaine doesn't hide them, but he doesn't let her see, either, just dropping them quickly into the pockets of his coat.

"Sleeping pills," he says. "Um. . .migraine medicine, iron supplements. . .stuff my mom used. "Someone back in the bunker might need them."

It's a good idea, Kurt thinks. After all, the likelihood of a pharmacist wandering into the bunker isn't too high. So he helps Blaine carry the rest of the pills, and they head back to the car. The sun is rising as they leave the house, and it should be beautiful, rising over this gorgeous estate. It should be turning the white walls a rosy shade, and light should be filtering through the leaves. Instead, the rising sun is an angry red globe, and the light it emits is dirty and harsh. Kurt shivers, causing Quinn to move closer to him, and Blaine to throw an arm over his shoulder.

"Are you cold?" Quinn asks.

"We'll get back in the car, warm up," Blaine suggests.

Kurt doesn't know how to tell them that it's not the air that's making him shiver. . .it's the blood-red sun that is slowly killing the bright stars.

**A/N: So absolutely nothing happened in this chapter. Except for massive amounts of somewhat heavy foreshadowing. Meh, what can you do.**

**Coming soon: One of the merry band decides to stay in the bunker and the road to New York begins! Also, Finn is stupid and Mike glows! Also, Santana gets pissed, Sam gets confused, and Puck gets told.**

**Reviews are love!**


	5. Finn

13:57

**A/N: I love Finn perspectives. That is all. Thanks for the reviews!**

Finn wakes up alone. Which is probably for the best, really, because his mom would totally freak if she found out that he spent the night with a girl. And Burt would give him the talk, and Finn has overheard some of the conversations Burt has with Kurt, and he really doesn't want to have to deal with that himself. Plus, he's a teenage boy and when he wakes up, there are certain. . .things. . .that he doesn't think Rachel wants to see.

But he can admit that it would have been kind of nice to have Rachel next to him.

He showers and puts his clothes on, but there's something nagging at him in the back of his head. It's like. . .there's something that he's supposed to do, but he can't remember what it is. He tries to shrug it off, figuring that it can't be all _that_ important, if he can't even remember it. He hopes there are pancakes for breakfast.

He runs into Karofsky on the way, which is totally fine, since they're buddies now. Dave gives him a slap on the shoulder, and Finn responds in kind.

"When did you get back?" Karofsky asks.

"Last night. Like. . .nine," Finn frowns. Was it nine? Was it earlier? "But we mostly just got yelled at and went to bed."

"Parents," Karofsky said, in a sympathetic tone. Finn just nodded along.

"Yeah," he agrees. He sniffs the air, hoping to catch a whiff of syrup.

There aren't any pancakes, but there's French toast, which is even better. Finn takes four pieces, Karofsky takes five. They both smother their plates in syrup, before sitting down at a long table. Finn likes eating with dudes, because he can stuff as much food in his mouth as he wants and they never complain.

"Where's Kurt?" Karofsky asks. Finn glances up at him from beneath lowered brows. Because, yeah, he and Karofsky are totally cool, now, but he's not so sure that Dave and Kurt are cool. "I just. . .I haven't seen him in a while," Karofsky says quickly.

Just then Rachel, Puck, and Santana walk in, and they all look pissed. They don't even go toward the food, just head straight toward Finn, sitting down heavily opposite him. Finn stuffs one more bite of French toast in his mouth, so if they ask him a question he doesn't know the answer to, he has an excuse for not answering.

"Where are they?" Rachel asks, her voice high and strident. He winces, and just points at his mouth. He chews as slowly as possible.

"Kurt, Quinn, and the hobbit," Santana says fiercely. "None of them were in their rooms this morning."  
"Did they leave without us?" Puck asks. "I swear to God if they left without us. . ."

Finn just shrugs and keeps chewing. Karofsky, looking slightly alarmed, mutters something about bacon and wanders off.

But French toast can only be chewed so many times, and eventually Finn has to just man up and swallow. So he does. And the minute the food has gone down his throat, all three of his interrogators lean forward, staring him down. Finn swallows heavily, and shoots a quick prayer up to God, or Jesus or. . .whoever.

_Dear Grilled Cheesus. . .I don't know where my friends are. . .or what my friends want me to do. . .and I just want to eat my French toast, so_

He doesn't even get the chance to finish his prayer before the door to the cafeteria opens again, and Kurt, Quinn, and Blaine walk in.

The effect is immediate. Rachel sighs, smiles, and comes to sit beside Finn. Puck grins wildly and goes to grab food. Santana, though. . .at first she smiles, apparently relieved, but then the smile disappears, and she just looks pissed. She walks up to them. . .no, Finn, realizes, not to all of them, just to Blaine.

"What the fuck is going on?" she asks. All three of them look confused. Finn takes another bite of French toast. It's really, really good. . .maybe even better than the pancakes. Santana, meanwhile, has grabbed Blaine by the front of his shirt and is holding it in a tight, balled up jumble in her fist. For his part, the boy just lifts his arm, clearly trying to appear non-threateningly.

"Nothing," he says placatingly. Kurt sighs, and yanks Santana's arm away.

"We couldn't sleep," he says, "so we went to Quinn's and Blaine's. We weren't abandoning you guys, or anything. Stop divaing out."

Santana glares at both of them. Finn, having been on the receiving end of that glare more often than he cares to remember, feels a little bad for them. "That's not what I'm talking about," Santana hisses. "I can _see_ it, hobbitfeet. Something _happened_."

Blaine just rolls his eyes, and excuses himself to get breakfast. Good move. Finn approves. Kurt, meanwhile, has a dark expression on his face. Finn kind of wishes that his French toast could magically turn into popcorn. This is better than watching a movie.

"His parents weren't there, okay?" Kurt asks. "Did you think maybe that would upset him?"

Santana seems to consider this, at least enough to let the other two teenagers move toward the breakfast line. She comes, sits next to Finn, and spears a piece of his French toast. He tries to protest, but his mouth is still full, and he kind of just spews all over her face.

"Ew, Finn, really, where are your manners?" Rachel asks in an exasperated voice. Santana just quirks one eyebrow and licks at a crumb that Finn had just spit near her lips. And. . .he thinks that it's supposed to be a sexy move, but it's kind of gross, because she's just eating his half-chewed piece of French toast.

"Where's Artie?" Puck asks, looking around. "Did he leave without us? I swear to God if he left without us. . ."

"Noah, that doesn't even make sense." Apparently Rachel's in a hoity-toity mood, because she's using that voice again, the one that Finn hates so much. "Where would Artie go?"

"I'll go check on him," Finn says, standing up. Because by this point Blaine is sitting down, and Santana looks like she's going to flip out again. Plus, he's finished his food, and he knows Coach Sylvester won't let him have seconds. Surprisingly, Quinn stands up and offers to go with him.

"I'm not very hungry," she says by way of explanation. They walk down the hallway together, and it's kind of weird. Finn can vaguely remember that they used to date, but it seems like an eternity again. Then again, it seems like an eternity since he was in school at all.

"So. . .uh. . .were your parents okay?" Finn asks, trying to make some kind of conversation.

"My mom wasn't there," Quinn says. Her voice drops then, becomes something poisonous and dark. "I don't really care where my dad is. I hope he was standing under one of the bombs when they dropped."

Well. Crap. That was scary Quinn, back with a vengeance. Finn tried to take a step away from her without her noticing. He couldn't tell if it worked or not. . .she kind of started smiling, and Finn had no idea what that meant.

Something weird was happening outside the quarantine room. Coach Sylvester was standing there yelling, and Artie looked kind of confused, and standing next to them was . . .

"Sam?" Quinn kind of sounded like she couldn't believe what she was saying. She walked forward, kind of a half run, half walk. She stops herself, just two feet away from the other boy. Coach Sylvester practically runs away. Finn wonders why.

"Quinn!" Sam seems ecstatic to see his girlfriend, and reaches out his arms. It's kind of painful to watch, the way Quinn glances down at the ground, and crosses her arms behind her back. Finn's pretty sure that her eyes have gotten watery, and Sam, meanwhile, just looks confused. Oh. He suddenly understands why Coach Sylvester had run away as fast as her legs could carry her. This is kind of, sort of, really uncomfortable.

"Sam. . .I'm so glad you're awake. I'm so. . ."

Sam steps forward, and lifts a hand, presumably to brush away the tears now falling from Quinn's eyes, but she jerks away. Sam just frowns a little more.

"Then why are you crying?"

"I'm happy," Quinn says. "I'm just. . .I'm really happy."

And with those words, she turns and flees, the same way that Coach Sylvester had just gone. Finn shrugs. Girls are really weird. He lifts his fist, and bumps it against Sam's.

"Good to have you back, man," He says sincerely. Sam grins back.

"Good to be back. Hey, dude, have you seen Quinn?"

Artie sighs. Finn just frowns. "Uh. . .weren't you just talking to her?"

Here's the thing. People think Finn's stupid, and they're kind of right. He's not really good at school, and it's super hard to memorize all the plays for football (it's a good thing he's a quarterback so he can only call the ones he remembers). He never passed a driver's ed test, and he's pretty sure that he flunked the SAT. But he's not so stupid that he imagines fake people, or that he doesn't get what's going on with Sam.

The other boy clearly has anemia.

"Sam. . ." Finn says really slowly, waving his hand. "Do you remember my name?"

"Okay, Finn, what kind of game are you trying to play?" Sam asks, and he seems kind of pissed. "I just want to see my girlfriend. . .you're not trying to steal her back, are you?"

"N-No!" Finn says. "I'm with Rachel now. I'd never. . .wait. . .what day is it?"

"I don't know!" Sam has that same tone of voice that Rachel uses all the time. "I was unconscious, remember? I just woke up!"

"Right. . ." Finn frowns. Doesn't anemia mean that you don't remember things? But Sam seems to remember him. . .

"It's short-term," Artie says helpfully, and Finn's blown away again, because _whoa_, Artie can _read minds_. "His memory seems to reset about every five or ten minutes. You don't really notice unless you're in the middle of a conversation with him."

"Oh," Finn says. He thinks about it. He thinks really, really hard. And then he decides that it's pretty cool, because it means that Sam doesn't have to deal with all of the _crap_ that came with the post-apocalyptic world and everything.

Except that then Blaine and the others walk up, and Sam's asking what happened to Blaine's arm, and where's Mercedes, and why is Brittany so sick, and what are they all doing underground, and where's his mom, and why is Artie looking at him like he's crazy, and what happened to Nationals, and where's Mr. Schue, and weren't they on bus

And then, right in the middle of a sentence, he stops, and turns to Artie with a frown on his face. "Hey," he says. "Have you seen Quinn?"

Artie looks like he wants to bang his head into a wall. On the other hand, Finn thinks that maybe this anemia thing isn't so good, after all.

**A/N: Ta-da! Sam! Yay! I actually am kind of in love with Sam in this story. Just wait!**

**Coming up: Blaine keeps being sketchy, Santana says good-bye, Finn discovers his mutation – okay, who am I kidding – somebody else discovers Finn's power. And an old friend pops up again. . . (cookie to anyone who figures out Blaine's secret or who shows up)**


	6. Santana

13:57

**A/N: Short one. Sorry. Bit of a transition chapter. But more of my most-favorite couple ever: Blaintana! Or Saine? Hmmm. . .Sorry about the language, Santana has a dirty mouth/mind. Also, at this point. . .no cookies for anyone!**

Santana loads up four plates with food, and balances them carefully as she heads back to her room. She wants to make sure that the _ninos_ have breakfast, and knows that Coach Sylvester closes down the breakfast lines at 8 am sharp. It's about 7:45.

They're all still sleeping when she walks in, so she sets the plates on her empty bed and backs carefully out. They're all glowing inside, soft blue hues of sleep and calmness. There's a smile on Santana's face, and try as she might, she can't quite get rid of it.

She probably still has that stupid expression on when she arrives at Quarantine. If it's still there, it's wiped away immediately. The door is closed, but there's an explosion of color around it – all confused purples and angry reds. She hesitates for a moment outside, because her head is already aching from all the color. But then she reminds herself that she's badass Santana Lopez, and she ain't afraid of no one and nothing, and especially not a bunch of pansy colors.

It's not as bad inside as she'd feared. Mike is still lying on his bed, glowing that same soft green that Santana always has to remember isn't an aura, but is an actual glow. Sam and Artie are seated on a bed. But Santana doesn't really care about any of them, not the calm, gentle blue around Sam (and wait a second. . .since when is Sam even _awake_) or the confused purple pulsing with Artie's heartbeat. Because Brittany is lying there, pale and yellow. Santana used to think that yellow was a happy color – daisies, and shit like that – but even since the bombs sick has meant something else.

Blaine's arm was yellow.

Yellow wrapped Mike's chest when he'd started to cough.

Mercedes was yellow just before she died.

And now Brittany – _her_ Brittany – is emitting the quietest yellow.

Santana ignores Artie's surprised squawk and Sam's pleased greeting as she walks over to her best friend. Her hand totally isn't shaking as she places the backside of it against Brittany's forehead. She expects it to be hot with fever, or maybe clammy and damp, but Brittany feels the same as always. Soft. Sweet. Santana leans down and brushes a kiss against the other girls foreheads. Lady kisses, as soft as butterfly wings.

But there are eyes on her now, so Santana stands tall and turns around, her hands on her hips. "Hey, Guppy Face, how you feeling?"

"I feel fine," Sam says. "But what are we all doing underground?"

Santana raises one eyebrow and glares at Artie. What the fuck has the boy been doing, that he hasn't even bothered to clue Sam in? But Artie just sighs, and shrugs his shoulders as his eyes drift over to Brittany. Yeah, Santana supposes there are more important things.

"We're in an underground bunker," Santana says. "To avoid radiation from the bombs."

"Bombs?" Sam's mouth is hanging open (dear God, she thinks a baby's head could fit in that massive cavern) but she really doesn't have the time to be dealing with it. She's got four kids to take care of, and Brittany's sick, and then there's Blaine freaking Anderson. She leaves Artie to deal with the other boys confusion, and goes in search of her new gay bestie (because as much as she loves Kurt, she just can't deal with all his histrionics).

Blaine's not in his room, and he's not in Kurt's room either. Santana frowns for a minute, biting her lip. There's no way the bitchez left her behind. . .she just has to figure out where they might go. And then it hits her, and she wants to bitchslap herself, it's so obvious. Sam's just woken up. And Quinn isn't sitting there next to him, playing Perfect Girlfriend. Ken's missing his Barbie.

Sure enough, they've all piled into Quinn's bedroom, sitting in a close semi-circle around her. It's funny looking, Santana muses, standing in the doorway. Everybody is tightly packed on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, Rachel practically sitting on Finn's lap, and Blaines' arm thrown over Kurt's shoulder. Puck is awkwardly squashed against the wall, one leg snaked over Kurt's. But Quinn is sitting in the middle, a good foot separating her fromt everyone else. Santana takes a deep breath and closes her eyes before walking in and letting the colors flood over her again.

They're familiar by now, dizzying and clashing but familiar. Finn's baby blue that fades into Puck's deep sapphire. Rachel's bright, bright pink that is swallowed at the edges by Kurt's just as aggressive but deeper hued fuschia. And Blaine's forest green that yet again is being nibbled away at by that _pinche_ yellow. Santana really, really hates yellow.

And Quinn, who's pearl grey is almost silver in happiness and sorrow. Santana thinks her eyes might cross just trying to separate where one color ends and another begins.

"Froggy Lips is awake," she announces. They all look at her without any surprise.

"What do I do?" Quinn wails. Santana leans agains the door frame. She doesn't really see why there's a need for the drama.

"You go see him," she says simply. "You put on a pair of gloves and give the dope a big hug."

"He doesn't know anything," Quinn whispers. "He doesn't remember."

"Hey, look at it this way," Finn says awkwardly. "IF you burn him, he'll probably forget in, like, an hour."

Santana rolls her eyes, because that made less sense than most of what Finn says. She walks into the room a little more. "He's a total comic nerd. If anyone can figure out a way to deal with you, it's a guy who speaks blue people."

"Na'vi," Puck interjects. He flushes as little when everyone looks at him. "What. . .it was a baller movie."

Quinn sighs. She balls up the skirt of her dress, twists it between her fingers. "I just. . .I don't want to hurt him. I hurt _everyone_."

"All right, pity party's over," Santana says, because it seems like nobody else is willing to go there. She reaches out to grab the other girl (by the shirtsleeve, because Santana isn't stupid and she doesn't want a burn). Before she has the chance, however, Blaine's hand has beat hers there. Quinn looks up and glances at the boy, who's wearing his most earnest face. He's calm and composed, and Santana just _knows_ he's wearing his mask.

"Quinn, you deserve to be happy. And Sam deserves to know the truth. What you two have is. . .it's really special. Give it a chance."

Hypocrite, Santana thinks, seeing the way Kurt's hand is resting on Blaine's thigh. Filthy, stupid, dumbass hypocrite. Blaine's hand drops from Quinn's shoulders, and apparently without conscious thought takes Kurt's in his own. Oblivious, Santana thinks. Quinn sighs, slow and long, but her grey is more pearled now, and she stands up.

"I'm going to go talk to him," she says. She walks toward the door, and is standing so close that Santana can feel the heat radiating off her. "I think. . .I think maybe you guys should leave without m."

"Hell, no!" Santana bursts out, but she's the only one. Rachel is nodding, smiling, and crying all at the same time which, Santana thinks, only goes to prove what a nutjob the hobbit really is. Puck grins, and Finn closes his eyes. Kurt and Blaine both look like they're fighting to keep big toothy grins off their faces, too. Quinn just smiles sadly at Santana.

"It's for the best, really," she says. "We wouldn't all fit in the car."

And then she's gone, out the door. Santana stomps her foot, because seriously, what the hell? She thought they were a team, the Seven Musketeers, or whatever. But Quinn's walking out, and nobody seems to give a fuck.

Finn stands up, holding out a hand to help up Rachel. "I guess I'm going to go pack," he says, before turning to Blaine. "Leave in an hour?"

That has Kurt jumping to his feet. "An hour?" he squeaks. "How am I supposed to pack everything in an hour?" he almost bowls Santana over as he runs out the door. Rachel follows her boyfriend, until only Puck and Blaine are left in the room.

She looks at them. For a moment their dark colors meld together, their dark good looks, their dark strength. For a moment they could be brothers. But Puck continues to shine, and he's still so healthy, so bright and, for all his attitude, so pure and _good_. But Blaine still has that yellow halo around his heart, he's missing an arm, and Santana can feel his scars on her own body. The illusion breaks and they're just two, scared boys, both so good at hiding it.

"I'm going to go say good-bye to Sarah," Puck says. And he leaves.

So it's Blaine, now and Santana remembers, finally, that he's the reason she left Brittany in the first place. He holds up his hand, as though he knows what she's thinking. Maybe he does.

"I told you that my parents didn't accept me," he says, his eyes hooded. Santana narrows her own eyes in response. The forest green is shot through with little veins of red. Untruth.

"Go on," she says, and crosses her arms.

"It's hard to go home," he says simply. "That's why I board at Dalton."

The red lights are brighter, now, shining forth and screaming at her. Santana taps her foot.

"Bullshit," she says. "What else is going on?"

Blaine sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. His fingers catch in curls, which pull and twist. "My dad hit me," he says darkly. "I can't go in that house anymore. . .we were in the kitchen. . ."

The red is receding, but it's still there. "Go on," she says. His eyes close, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. What he says next surprises her, but it doesn't shock her.

"I think you should stay behind."

She knows why he's saying it, and she knows why his eyes are closed. Poets like to say that eyes are the windows to the soul, but scientists know what they really are. Mirrors and holes and reflections. If Blaine opens his eyes, she'll see herself.

"You have your little siblings. They need you."

"They needed a father, but he left," Santana says bitterly. "So instead they get child support. They needed a mother, but she had to work all the time. There are a lot of things they need, but they get by without them."

The words are harsh, but they're true. She doesn't want to leave them, not Angel or Carlissa, Xiomara or Naomi. She doesn't want to leave Brittany, that pale sickly yellow. But she feels like she has to see this through, and besides, she doesn't think she can stand another minute of being stuck under ground, the feel of all the rock closing in on her. Coach Sylvester will take care of her familia, better than she can. Besides, someone needs to reign in the boys.

Besides, somehow in this messed up world, Blaine and Puck have become her best friends. Brittany has Artie, and the babies have each other.

Blaine still has his eyes closed, and he's biting his lower lip. Santana doesn't like who he becomes when he's with her. She doesn't like the vulnerability. Mirrors and holes and reflections. She leans over, lips first, and tastes him. Cinnamon and coffee. She nips a little, bits at his lower lip, and pulls back. His eyes are open now, confused, but there's a smile on his face.

"I'll turn you straight yet, Hobbit," she says. "And I am still coming."

**A/N: So our heroes are off again! Yay! **

**Coming up: Blaine keeps being sketchy, Finn's power is discovered, old places are revisited, and old friends pop up**

**Also: The mysteries yet to be discovered: wtf, Blaine? What is Finn's power? Who is the mysterious old friend? What did Quinn give Kurt? Will Sam ever remember?**


	7. Rachel

13:57

**A/N: On the road again! Just can't wait to be on the road again! Wow, getting back into the groove with these characters. A little bit of Finchel here, a touch of Klaine, etc. etc.**

Rachel Berry has always known that one day she would ride into New York City. It has always been her dream, to walk down Broadway, lights flashing, toes tapping, heart singing with joy. She's seen it during her visualization exercises, and she's already planned her first Tony acceptance speech.

None of her planning, however, involved a fourteen hour van ride with boys who, quite frankly, smell a bit like dip.

Finn is driving again, which Rachel simply cannot understand. She believes it's firmly established that Finn is, quite simply, an incompetent driver, and though she loves him with all her heart, it's a little terrifying to see him slouching over the wheel. Blaine is beside him, and they've settled back into their dizzying confusing friendship, which, as far as Rachel can tell, is composed almost entirely of grunting and strange facial expressions.

Noah and Santana have claimed the back, bench seat of the van, and are lying all over each other. Frankly, it's indecent, and Rachel has more than half a mind to lean over and pull Santana's skirt up for her. The amount of leg being shown is more than a bit scandalous. She and Kurt are, of course, the very portrait of decorum, sitting pristinely in the middle seats, ankles properly crossed.

They've been driving for approximately five minutes, and it's already maddening.

"Well," Rachel says, because the silence is oppressive, and it's becoming increasingly evident that nobody else is capable of vocalizing their inner thoughts. "I, for one, am glad at this opportunity to get some fresh air."

"Shut it, manhands," Santana hisses sleepily. Puck grunts, and kind of pats the other girl on the head. Rachel crosses her arms petulantly.

"I was just trying to say that I believe the ride might pass a bit quicker if we were to play a game," Rachel says, and there is absolutely not even a hint of a whine in her voice. The word game, however, has Noah sitting up instantly, dislodging a peeved Santana from his lap. Finn's hands tighten a little on the steering wheel. Blaine glances over nervously.

"Maybe not right now," he says. "When we switch drivers, maybe."

But Puck's awake now, and he's thrusting his hands forward between the seats. "Ten fingers!" he shouts triumphantly. "Put'em up! Ten fingers!"

"Unfair," Blaine says. Rachel winces a little, hoping he's not about to feel self-pitying, though if anyone has the right, it's probably the one-armed soloist. "Finn has his hands on the wheel."

"Then Finn doesn't play," Noah responds. Finn whines a little, sounding a bit like a puppy dog. Rachel wants to reach out and pet his head (well, and kiss him, but she always wants to kiss him, because there is just something about Finn Hudson that makes her knees go quivery and her heart race). Blaine holds up his hand, and the rest of them do as well.

"Never have I ever kissed a dude," Noah says, and he's grinning like he just won a marathon. In a way, he has, as everybody puts down a finger.

Wait a second.

"Never have I ever. . ." Santana pauses to think.

_Everybody_ put down a finger?

"Kurt Hummel, who have you been macking on?" Rachel asks, spinning around so fast that her hair hits the boy in the face. Kurt sputters a little, and tries to push it aside.

"Never mind, Rachel," Blaine says. He sounds _fierce_, and his voice is kind of low. Even Noah looks frightened by it. Though, really, that isn't such a surprise, because although Noah likes to act big and tough, he's really just a little boy like the rest of them.

"Never have I ever been slushied," Santana grins, though hers fades a little when Blaine gives her a toothy smile and keeps his four remaining fingers up.

"Never have I ever received a B+ or lower."

"Lame," Santana hisses, though Rachel notices that she's keeping all of her fingers up. As is Kurt. And Blaine. She sighs. She really isn't any good at this game.

"Never have I ever had sex," Kurt says. Oh. Rachel frowns. She should have thought of that one. Noah is down to two fingers, and is kind of glaring at everyone. Blaine has turned around to give Finn directions. Kurt, meanwhile, is craning his neck to get a look at the other boy's hand.

"This place seems kind of familiar," Finn muses. Rachel glances out the window, and sucks in her breath. Because it is familiar, even with the haze that seems to have permanently settled over the horizon, even through the filthy screen of dust. There's the little road that twists through the woods, until it comes to a cabin. Behind the cabin is one little grave, and beyond the grave

"Keep driving," Blaine says between clenched teeth. His fingers are splayed out, white-knuckled and stiff with tension against the dashboard. Finn glances over, his eyebrows raised, but Blaine won't meet his gaze. Rachel has grabbed onto Kurt's shirt, is pressing hard, and her nails must be biting into skin, leaving little crescent-shaped marks, but Kurt isn't reacting.

One little grave. . .she blinks furiously, trying to keep the tears from rolling down her face.

Daddy. . .Papa. . .

Nobody else has cried, not this entire time, and she's done being the crybaby. She's going to be strong, for Finn and Kurt, and even for Santana. She's going to prove to them that Rachel Berry is stronger than that, that Rachel Berry can stand up to loss and pain and come out on the other side.

Just as long as Finn doesn't turn down that winding road, just as long as she doesn't have to face a tombstone and grass that hasn't grown in yet.

She doesn't want to play the game anymore, and it seems like everyone else agrees with her. Kurt's face has grown somber, and he slouches in his seat, staring out the window. Noah grumbles a little, but closes his eyes. And Santana. . .

Santana reaches over, and gives Rachel's hand a squeeze. Rachel looks at the hand suspiciously, waiting for talons to grow out and pierce through her skin. Santana smiles at her a little bit, and then leans back into Noah's chest. Hmm.

Kurt's wrist is bleeding a little from where her nails pierced his skin.

But Finn is still driving, still down the highway, and she's able to breathe again, those simple exercises that her vocal coach taught her. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Fill up the diaphragm. Again. Again.

Rachel can't remember a time when breathing wasn't hard.

They run out of gas in a clearing. The car comes rumbling to a stop, waking up Santana and Noah.

"Seriously?" Santana is the first one to speak, when they're all out of the car, and Kurt is very somberly telling them that it's just out of gas. "What kind of an idiot runs out of gas on the Pennsylvania turnpike?"

Sheepishly, Finn raises his arm. Rachel takes that opportunity to duck under it. He feels warm and solid against her.

"It's not his fault," Blaine says. "We were looking for an exit after we hit a quarter of a tank, but there were cars blocking all of them."

Noah is staring around, blinking heavily. "Guys. . ." he mutters. "Haven't we been here before?"

It doesn't look familiar to Rachel – the same as any other clearing in the woods. There's a beaten part, just off the road, that looks like it held muddied tracks not so long ago. A pile of charred sticks and stones just a few yards away. Nothing else to make it any different. Santana and Kurt look equally confused, but Blaine and Finn. . .

Finn pulls away from her, and heads toward the beaten in ground, Blaine following at his heels. They make a funny pair, one towering over the other, short straight brown hair against curly black locks. They even walk different, the loping, slouchey walk contrasted with ramrod straight posture. But there's look in their eyes that's exactly the same.

"What are the chances that we'd run out of gas here?" Blaine breathes.

There's a memory, ghosting somewhere through Rachel's head. Screaming breaks and shattering glass. . .Finn's face, still and pale. Sickness.

"Come on," Kurt says impatiently, breaking the silence. "Let's start walking. If we find another car Puck or I can hotwire it."

"That's my boy," Noah says proudly. Finn is frowning, and walking away into the forest. Blaine mutters something, and Finn mutters back, and Rachel wishes, not for the first time, that they would stop speaking in their stupid boycode and just talk like normal, civilized persons. But Finn is still walking away, and it's too much like the nightmares that she's been having.

"Wait!" she yells, and then she's beside him. Finn doesn't look down, though, doesn't even acknowledge her presence, and it takes two of her steps to make up for one of his. Finn is walking away, and she's forced to run beside him.

"Where-where are you going?" she pants. She reaches out and tries to grasp his hand, but it's swinging too quickly, and she misses.

"We left him," Finn says. "I mean. . .yeah, we were panicked and we were scared, and sick and hurt but we. . .we just left him. We didn't even look."

"Who?" Rachel asks. But there's a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she knows who he's talking about.

Rachel liked – no, _likes_ – Mr. Schue, but she's never thought much of him as a teacher, or as a vocal coach. He'd always been much too focused on family and getting along, and never took her suggestions seriously. And honestly, she hasn't even noticed that he isn't around.

But Finn is walking forward like some kind of bloodhound. They're deep in the woods, now, and Rachel isn't entirely certain what direction they came from. She's a child of the city (or will be, as soon as she makes it to New York), grown up in cornfields, and the darkness of the woods frightens her a little. She doesn't want to follow Finn, because there's no way that they'll find their teacher, no way he'll still be in the woods, almost a month later. And if they find him he won't be. . .and she can't deal with that, she just can't, not after Mercedes, not after Papa and Daddy

She doesn't even realize that she's crying until she feels Finn's thumb against her cheek, the familiar calluses. His brown eyes are in front of her own.

"Hey," he says, sounding gentle and surprised all at once. "Don't cry. . .why are you crying?"

She shakes her head, because the words won't come past her throat. Finn hugs her, and it's beautiful and it's perfect because it's Finn, and he's tall and broad, and when he hugs her she feels like she can disappear.

Except that he still smells a little like dip. They'll work on it.

There's a funny sound coming from their left. A sort of leaf-crackling, coughing noise. Finn perks up, immediately, reminding Rachel of the Golden Retriever her dads had gotten her when she was younger. He's still hugging her, but his chin has lifted off the top of her head, and she can feel the cold, stale air against her cheek.

"Rach. . ."

"Go ahead," she says, and she doesn't shiver when he takes his arms away. She's proud of herself. Over the past two years, she's gotten amazingly good at letting Finn Hudson go. Maybe because she knows he'll always come back.

She stands there, listening to the crashing sounds of her boyfriend barreling through bushes and trees. And then she listens to the silence. No wind blows through the leaves, no birds sing, no crickets chirp. She doesn't even hear the buzz of a mosquito. Glancing up, there's no sunlight filtering down. . .just an orange haze that's settled over everything. She shivers, and pulls her jacket closer around her shoulders.

"Finn?" she calls. "Finn?"

She thinks she might hear an answer, deeper in the undergrowth, so she walks in. It's easy to follow the boy's path. . .Finn has pretty much destroyed every stick and twig in his way. And Rachel's tiny, so it's easy to dark beneath broken branches.

"Rachel?" It's Finn's voice, but it's muffled and hoarse. She turns around and almost screams at the monster walking toward her. She doesn't, though, because it's still speaking with Finn's voice, and oh dear God, it's finally happened, her life has finally turned into a Broadway musical. Her handsome boyfriend has transformed into a hideous beast, and she must fall in love with him, despite his dastardly outer appearance to reveal the true prince inside and

And then he steps close enough that she can see him, really see him. It's just normal Finn, but he's carrying something in his arms. Rachel squints.

"Can you help me out?" Finn asks, his voice still strained. "His arms are just kind of flopping around everywhere. . ."

Rachel decides that she needs to have a long talk with the scriptwriter of her life, because there is absolutely nothing romantic or mysterious about grabbing her music director's hands, and placing them on his chest.

**A/N: Still cookies for anyone who figures out Blaine's issue, or Finn's power, though Finn at least is hard to figure out at this point. . .**

**Reivews are love!**

**Coming up: Puck deals with relationship problems, Mr. Schue = sick, and two members of our merry band decide not to continue on with the adventure. Plus, Blaine yells. Yay for angry!Blaine.**


	8. Puck

13:57

**A/N: D'awww. . .Puck chapter. I never thought I would get squishy feelings inside from a Puck chapter. Thanks for all of the favorites, alerts, and reviews. And I am sorry, but there will probably be much Blaintana coming up. . .but also much Klaine! **

Puck remembers seeing the cloud from the bomb. He remembers being through the bus's emergency exit door (and _fuck_ that had hurt). He remembers waking up, seeing a curly-haired Hobbit just a few yards away, and limping back to the bus. He remembers a ringing in his ears. He thinks that he can remember fishing, and getting back on the bus.

It's just that there's a weirdass hole in his head when he looks around the clearing, and he can't put his finger on it. It sucks.

Finn's gone running off into the jungle, Rachel following after, and the rest of them are just kind of milling around uncertainly. Puck's pretty sure that Kurt and Santana don't remember this place at all, which is probably for the best. Puck himself doesn't really have _happy_ memories of the place. Blaine, meanwhile has his head cocked, and is kind of looking thoughtfully off into the distance. So Puck thinks, what the hell, maybe it's about time to put their differences aside and be friends.

"Hey, dude," he says. Blaine's head whips around faster than. . .faster than. . .well, really fucking fast, and Puck takes a step back. "What's up?"

Blaine lifts one caterpillar – whoa, one eyebrow, because Puck's trying really hard to be nice. "Waiting for Finn," the boy says.

"Well, duh. But you look like you're thinking. What are you thinking about?"

Crap. Blaine's giving him the Look. _That_ look, that his mom gives him whenever he offers to do the laundry, that teachers give him when he raises his hand to answer a question (they never call on him, though, just give him The Look and move on). It's the look girls give him when he says they look nice, that his sister gives him when he offers to help with homework, that Mr. Schue gives whenever he has a song suggestion. The Look.

"Um. . .Puck. . .we're not friends."

Blaine's voice is slow and controlled and he kind of sounds like he's talking to a toddler. Puck shrugs.

"I know, dude, but I figure. . .maybe we should be."

Blaine's standing up straight now – at least, Puck thinks he is, but it's kinda hard to tell, because the dude's a friggin midget – and his eyes are all pissed looking. Puck can't decide if the oompa loompa glare is worse or better than The Look.

"You threw slushies on people," Blaine says, each word coming out clear and distinct. "You threw Kurt in a dumpster. You called Finn gay. I saw you at Sectionals, when I was singing. . .you looked constipated. I saw you at Regionals, when Kurt and I sang that duet. . .you looked like you were going to choke. You forced Kurt out of the bus when he was sick, and shoved him into the engine of the bus." The midget's taken out his fingers, now, is ticking off, point by point. When he runs out of fingers, he holds them all up again. "You hook up with girls indiscriminately, and have no problem breaking their hearts. You lead Santana on. You cheated with your best friends girlfriends. . .twice. You found your sister who, I might add, has been living alone for three weeks, and promptly dumped her with Sue Sylvester and took off again."

Puck holds up his hands. "Okay," he says. "I get it. You think I'm a dick. Whatever. I do what I gotta do."

"And so do I," Blaine says. "Which is why we're not going to be friends, Noah. Not now, and not ever."

"Puck," he says, mechanically. Blaine waves a hand, as if to say 'whatever' and then wanders off to stand by Kurt.

And that is. . .that is just too fucked up. Puck shakes his head. He's not a total douchewad, no matter what the hobbit says, and. . .he's pretty sure that some of that was backwards but he can't. . .

He kicks at the ground, and a clod of dirt goes flying. Bullshit. Whatever.

He's thinking about grabbing Santana's elbow and pulling her into the backseat of the car when Rachel comes skipping back. There are teartracks running down her cheeks, and her eyes are kind of red and puffy, but she's grinning and skipping, and looks like rainbows are practically busting out her ass.

Puck pauses for a moment, trying to visualize it.

But Finn ruins it (cockblock) walking into the clearing with something brown and stinky in his arms. Wait. . .Puck frowns. . .something brown and stinky with. . .with arms and legs? He wanders over to Finn, who is kind of red in the face and huffing in a somewhat alarming way.

"Dude. . ." he mutters. "Are you walking around with a dead body?"

"He's alive!" Finn grumbles, pulling the body closer to his chest. "At least. . .I think so. . ."

"He's breathing," Rachel says imperiously, putting her hands on her hips. "I checked."

"Oh my God, Mr. Schue!" And there goes Kurt, with fairy dust sprinkles flying around him. He helps Finn lower their teacher to the ground, and then begins unbuttoning the guy's shirt. He's waving his arms around ineffectually, yelling "step back, let the man breathe!" Puck raises an eyebrow, because really, there's only six of them, and Santana is five feet away, holding her nose and grimacing.

Mr. Schue shifts a little on the ground, groans, and opens his eyes. They move around a little, glazed over, before they finally rest on Rachel.

"I'm in hell," he mutters, before passing out again. Rachel's mouth drops open, as Kurt stifles a laugh.

Puck wants to take the Chevy, because it's a bitching truck, and they can just lay Schue out in the bed, but Kurt is insisting that the cab isn't big enough. Which, once again, Puck doesn't get. There are four seats, and he doesn't mind having Santana sit on his lap. He's pretty sure Kurt wouldn't mind Blaine sitting on his, either, but when he mentions it, Kurt turns bright red and swats at him.

Instead they grab a Pontiac van, which is totally a soccer mom car, but Kurt points out that it has almost a full tank of gas, and there isn't a dead body sitting in it, both of which are pluses. So as Kurt checks under the hood for any potential difficulties, Puck slashes under the wheel and quickly hooks up a pair of wires.

Getting Mr. Schue into the back is the hardest part. Finn tries to just pull him in, but can't fold his own ginormous body enough to get their teacher past the middle two seats. So then Puck tries pushing, but just manages to kind of mash the dude's face into a chair. It's finally Rachel and Santana who figure it out, crawling in through the back and tugging on their teach's arm until they have him in. They lay him out and then clamber in, realizing too late that there still aren't enough seats.

Santana's driving this time, and Blaine takes the co-pilot chair – Puck's really got to learn how the short dude always manages to call that seat. Finn's got one chair, with a lapful of Rachel, trying to sit all prim and proper. Puck can't quite keep from laughing when he realizes that, even sitting on her boyfriend's lap, her head still doesn't hit the ceiling. He's alone in his seat, but that's fine, because Kurt is petulantly sitting on the floor, and he figures that anything is better than that.

"I still don't understand how you found him," Kurt says, glancing over his shoulder.

"I don't know," Finn shrugs. "We were just walking and. . .there he was."

"Huh."

"Puppies. . .unicorns. . .candy. . ." Mr. Schue is muttering incoherent half-sentences from the back.

"What's wrong with him?"

"What _isn't_ wrong with him?" Kurt asks in response.

"He's probably suffering from exposure, shock, malnourishment. . ." Santana starts listing.

"Radiation," Blaine adds.

"Yup, radiation." Santana frowns, shifts her grip a little on the steering wheel. "Um. . .he could be having that relapse, maybe. . ."

"Okay, I think we get it," Rachel cuts in. "He's very, very ill. We should probably stop and try to nurse him back to health."

"No."

Puck turns to stare at the Hobbit, because his response is so clipped, so short and angry.

"Blaine. . ." Kurt's voice is softer, uncertain, and Puck's hand kind of clenched. Hypocrite, he thinks. That's the word he'd been looking for earlier. Hypocrite. Because him leading on Santana is nothing, _nothing_ compared to the way the Hobbit has his boy wrapped around one little finger.

"Sorry," Blaine says. "You're right. We should stop. I'm just. . .I'm worried about Wes and David and. . .sorry, Rach. We should stop." He mutters something to Santana, and points to an upcoming exit. She nods and swerves over, _turning_ into the other lane more than changing. Puck grins. It's like a roller coaster.

It's the same drill that they're used to. They pull into the hotel parking lot, and the girls plus Kurt start unloading the car, while the rest of them head in to scope out the place. It doesn't smell bad, which is surprising, though Blaine points out that when the sickness hit, most people wouldn't just stay in an unfamiliar hotel. They find three rooms on the first floor, and go to help the girls in. Mr. Schue gets placed into the first room, of course, and then they all settle uncomfortably onto the bed, staring at him.

"Now what do we do?" Finn asks uncomfortably.

Puck figures they should eat dinner, and when he suggests it, Santana is quick to jump to her feet.

The hotel isn't big, and the lobby is right where they came in. That's part of the problem. The hotel isn't big, and there isn't a kitchen. There isn't even the normal oven used for morning continental breakfasts. "Guess we'll have to go in search of food," Puck mutters, and he's kind of pissed about that, because they've been in a car all day as it is.

He can't finish his sentence, though, because Santana's lips are crashing into his, and her hands are climbing up under his shirt. And it's been a really long time since Puck's gotten laid (like. . .since before the bombs, which is almost a month, which is _insane_) and he figures that there's nothing wrong with having dessert before dinner.

Santana tells him that it's going to be apples and Cheetos for dinner, and that he's not allowed to complain, so he doesn't. Rachel complains, of course, and Finn complains, and Kurt takes an apple and turns his nose up. Puck doesn't really see the problem, though, because Cheetos totally rock.

Kurt grabs his sleeve, in the middle of their makeshift dinner. "I have to show you something," he says. Puck's tempted to leer and make a comment (I don't swing that way – thanks, sweetcheeks, but I felt up Santana earlier – you gonna show me your peacock?) but he doesn't. He just stands up with the skinny little kid, and ignores the way that the Hobbit is glaring daggers into his back as they walk out.

Kurt takes him next door, and tells him to sit on a bed.

"Really?" Puck says, and he's biting his cheek, _hard_, to make sure the rest of the words don't come out.

"I really think you're going to want to be seated," Kurt says. He holds out a small, bound book. "Quinn gave this to me."

"So why are you giving it to me?"

"I think. . .I think you should see it," Kurt says. His cheeks are stained red, and he won't look in Puck's eyes. Weird. He reaches out and takes the book. There's no writing on the front. . .just simple green. He flips it open to the first page.

It's a picture of Quinn, dressed in her outfit from Regionals. Last year. She's still round with the baby, and she's smiling brilliantly. He frowns again. Why would she give this to Kurt? Why would Kurt want to give it to _him_?

He flips the page again, and now it's a picture of Quinn in bed, wearing a hospital gown. Her hair is dark with sweat, and she looks kind of annoyed. He's standing on one side, and looks absolutely _terrified_. He flips the page quickly.

Now it's him and Quinn, and they're both smiling, and there's a bundle of cloth held between them. He can't see into that bundle, but he knows what it contains. His heart is beating in his chest, up his thoat, so hard he's afraid he's about to hurl and chunks of his insides will splatter all over the room. Kurt slips out as Puck turns the page again.

It's her. Her face is red, and scrunched, and she kind of looks like a troll. She's the most beautiful thing Puck's ever seen. Her little hands are curled up into tight little fists, and her mouth is open, gumless and pink. She looks a little like an alien.

He flips again, and it's been hours now. She's wearing a white onesie, and there's a hat on her head. Her eyes are open, a foggy grey. He remembers the nurses saying that most babies are born with blue/grey eyes. They'll change later, to Quinn's hazel, or his brown.

He flips again, and now it's Rachel's mom holding her, and it's so wrong, because that baby may be half-Jewish, but it's never going to look like Shelby. He takes a deep breath, and wills his heart back down. H can see her, now. . .she's a little over a year old, and her hair is covered in dark waves. She has Quinn's eyes. . .hazel with flecks of green and gold. Maybe she has his badass attitude, of Quinn's even more badass one. Maybe she. . .

He turns the page. It's a postcard, with Shelby smiling, and holding her tight against her chest. There's a menorah in the corner, and script to the side that says "Happy Hanukkah". He wants to vomit, because she looks _exactly_ the way he sees her in his head. She's smiling. He supposes that counts for something.

The next page doesn't have a picture. It's just a note, short.

_Quinn,_

_ We're moving to Cincinnati. We'd love to keep in touch! Here's our new address._

_ Shelby & Beth_

Oh, God.

Allah.

Buddha.

Jesus fuckin' Christ and Satan.

His baby. He's thought about her, since the bombs, and he knows that Quinn has, too. But he didn't know how to find her, how to even start looking, and he's pushed her back to the very furthest reaches of his mind. But in his hand he has her address, where she lives, where he can find her.

Where he can find out if she's even alive.

It's too fucking much, and he knows that he can't go with them to New York. He has to turn around, he has to drive back, because that's his baby girl, and she has his hair and Quinn's eyes.

He rubs furiously at his eyes with the back of his hand, and tucks the little book into the pocket of his jacket. He's not sure how he's going to tell all of them. Kurt will understand – stupid little kid always understands, way too much – but Finn won't, and the Hobbit won't and, damn it, _Santana_ won't.

But he walks in the door and none of it matters, because they're all standing up with their bags thrown over their shoulders, except for Rachel, who's kneeling beside Schuester, a rag pressed over his eyes.

"We can't just leave Rachel," Finn is saying, looking upset. "I should stay with her."

"_No_," Rachel says firmly, and Puck's pretty sure that if she were standing, she'd be pounding the ground with her foot. "I mean. . .I would like for someone to stay, and help me to assure that Mr. Schue makes it back all right. But I think. . .I think you have to go, right Blaine?"

"Yeah," the Hobbit says. "I think so. I'm pretty sure."

"What's going on?" Puck asks. His hand curls around the little book, and he glances at Kurt. Kid won't meet his eyes.

"It's still early," Santana says. "And we realized it's silly to all sit around here. We can't drag Schue with us to New York, anyway."

"I still don't want to leave her," Finn says.

"I'll stay," Puck says, and he totally ignores the way that Kurt's lips curve into a gentle smile. "I'll help her get back."

Finn's face breaks out into a broad smile, and Santana sneers.

"Yeah, whatever," she says, and she pushes past. Puck kind of wants to explain, but the Hobbit looks like he's about to pull out a gun, or a glittery discostick or something, so he shuts his mouth with a clack. Finn goes to Rachel, and they're all gooey and gross for a minute before he leaves, too.

"Why are you staying, Noah?" Rachel asks.

"The same reason you are," he says. "I can't go on."

**A/N: Aww. . .Puck. . .sad face. Reviews are love!**

**Coming up: Sam is confused, Tina is bored, Quinn is sweet, and Mike glows. But not as brightly. Uh-oh. . .**


	9. Tina

13:57

**A/N: Little semi-comic relief chappie. I have officially fallen in love with my version of Sam.**

Tina is scared. She's more frightened than she's ever been in her life. This is worse than right after the bus crash, and worse than anything that happened on the way back. Because all of those times she'd had Mike, and now she was terrified that she was losing him.

There were just four of them in quarantine, now that Sam was awake. Two, really, since she and Artie had no real need to be there. But Brittany is still drifting in and out of consciousness – moments of lucidity followed by coma-like periods of silence. And Mike. . .Mike can't manage two words without coughing, and half the coughs bring up blood along with the phlegm.

She closes her eyes tightly, because it's the only way she's figured out to keep back the tears.

At least her head doesn't hurt anymore, and the strange static and voices have receded. They come back if she goes near the doorway out, so she avoids it. She avoids people, too, because it's easier in just quarantine, with Artie's steady breathing and the constant drip of Brittany's IV.

Somebody – probably Coach Sylvester – told her that her other friends have come and left again, but they're empty words. Because really, she only has five friends and Mike. The five original members of New Directions. But Mercedes is dead, and Rachel hasn't said a word to her since freshman year when she hooked up with Finn. Kurt left her for Dalton. Which means her only friend is Artie, and her only love is Mike, and they're both still in quarantine.

She wonders where her parents are.

The door opens, and Sam clomps in, his face a confused cloud. Artie turns to look at her, and lifts one eyebrow as if to ask who's turn it is. Tina just lays back down, and hides her face in Mike's shoulder.

"What's going on?" Sam asks furiously. "I'm sitting next to Quinn, and I go to kiss her, and she practically runs away. Is she cheating on me again? Is this about Finn? Where is he. . .why I oughta. . ."

"It's not about Finn," Artie says, and pats the empty space on the bed next to Brittany. "Quinn's sick, and she just gets sicker when people touch her."

"That doesn't make any sense!" Sam exclaims. Tina sighs. It's a familiar conversation, one that's been started and stopped half a dozen times in the past twenty-four hours. Artie is still patient, and she wonders how he can stand it.

"Wait a minute. . ." Sam pauses for a moment. "Where _are _we?"

"We're underground," Artie says. "There was a nuclear attack, and we're beneath ground. Most of McKinley is here."

"Where's Quinn?" Sam asks. Tina hears the creak as he stands up again. "Is she all right? I have to find her!"

The door opens, and his footsteps recede. The same drama, playing out over, and over again. Tina thinks she could scream.

Mike coughs again, spots of red against the white of his pillow. She thinks he might be glowing a little less. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? She's going insane.

"We have to do something," she says, maybe a minute later, maybe an hour. She doesn't know what time it is, or what day. There's no sun underground, obviously, and her watch stopped working. Nobody comes into quarantine anymore, now that the only people there are a quiet football player and ditzy cheerleader. Artie looks up at her, and his eyes are dead.

"What do you mean?" he asks. "What can we do?"

"I don't know," Tina says. She'd been hoping he'd have an answer. She hugs Mike's arm to her chest. "What's going to happen to us?"

"I suppose we'll grow old. Older. And die."

"That's morbid."

"I don't know. Nothing happens down here."

Nothing happens down here. She wonders what will happen, not just to them, but to the world. As far as they know, they're the only ones left alive. Kurt's family, Coach Sylvester, a glee club, and a busload of cheerleaders and jocks. No more doctors, or lawyers, or teachers. No more plumbers or arquitects. . .what's going to happen to any of them.

"We should go to school," Tina says. Artie looks at her like she's gone completely crazy.

"You want to go back to McKinley?"

"No. . .just. . .we should go to school. Here. We have to learn something."

Artie considers this for a moment, and then shrugs. Tina can almost see the thoughts going through his head. What kind of a person actually _wants_ to go to school? But she's always liked school, and he should know that. Maybe he does, because after a moment, a heartbeat, he nods his head.

"Okay," he says. "Let's go find Coach Sylvester."

Of course, to get to Coach Sylvester, they have to go past half the other bedrooms. Past the Hummel's which, for once, has no sounds of yelling or thrown object. Past Finn's silent room, and Kurt's. Past Puck's room, where they hear the sounds of Sarah reading aloud, probably to one of the twins. Past Santana's room, and Blaine's. And then Quinn's.

Sam's in there, now, muttering something in a foreign language. Tina pauses for a moment, to listen. She's not being voyeuristic. . .she's just looking out for her friends.

"Are you speaking in Na'vi again?" Quinn asks, and she's either about to laugh or to yell.

"Just let me hold you," Sam's voice is husky and low. "I'm worried about you."

"It's not me you have to worry about."

"You won't even let me touch you. . .don't you care about me, anymore?"

"Of course I do. . ."

"There's someone else, isn't there. Finn? Or Puck?"

"No. . .it's just. . .I'll hurt you. If I touch you, I'll hurt you."

A long pause, and Artie is nudging her, trying to get her to move further down the hall, but she waves her hand at him, shushing him up. Things are getting good, now, and really, she hasn't had any entertainment for the last week. Not since

"Wait. . .like Rogue?"

"Who?"

"From X-Men. If she touched people she, like, sucked all of their life force out."

"Um. . .yeah. Kind of like. . .Sam, wait, where are you going?"

Tina just has time to pull Artie away from the door before it bangs open. Sam's standing there, panting a little. Wow, Tina thinks. He really does have a massive mouth.

"Where are you going?" Artie asks.

"I have to. . .wax lips!" Sam says. "Wax lips."

And then he's off again, skidding around a corner and nearly falling to the ground in his haste. Quinn comes to the door, a confused look on her pretty face. "Don't ask me," she says to Artie. "I have no idea what he's talking about."

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! So much Klaine love . . .interesting. Well, Klainers be glad, for this is a massive chappie coming up for you. But not tomorrow's. Because tomorrow, Sh*t goes down. And gets real.**

**Coming up: Blaine takes a swim, Finn exercises his yet-unknown power, Kurt showers, and Santana hears a hard truth. Blaintana! **


	10. Lopez

13:57

**A/N: Thanks as always for all of the reviews, favorites, etc.! As a little note: I originally plotted this story to be eleven chapters: it now looks like it will be twenty-three. Which is awesome, because that's exactly the same as "Beyond the End." Oh symmetry, I do love thee. Enjoy the angst! Klaine next chappie, I promise.**

They've been driving forever, and Santana's bored. Puck's not there to fool around with, and Blaine's tired of playing her games. There's no radio, and Kurt's driving, and Finn won't stop moaning about Rachel. She's already braided and unbraided her hair half a dozen times. She starts tapping out a rhythm on the seat in front of her. If she focuses on the rhythm, she doesn't have to think about what's going on back in the bunker.

Except that Blaine makes a growling noise deep in the back of his throat, reaches out, and covers her hand. She appreciates the curling black hairs peeking out from beneath the cuffs of his shirt. Because of course prep boy is wearing a collared shirt, even for an impromptu rescue mission.

"There!" Finn says. "Pull over. Kurt, Kurt, _pull over_."

Kurt does so, a slight squeal of wheels. He half spins in his seat, his eyes spitting sparks. "What on earth is going on, Finn?"

"Look!" Finn takes his seatbelt off, and leans forward, pointing at the sign in front. "That's the Tarrytown bridge. . .the city's right on the other side."

"How could you possibly know that, Frankenteen?"

"He's right," Blaine says. He leans over the seats in front of him, draping his arm almost casually over Finn's shoulder. "It's getting kind of dark. . .maybe we should stay here for the night, and go into the city tomorrow."

His voice is trembling a little, and he's not speaking with his normal confidence. He doesn't expect them to agree with him, Santana realizes. Which is stupid, really, because Kurt would agree to anything he says, and Finn doesn't have the brain that God gave giraffes, so really, Blaine's going to get whatever he wants.

Sure enough, within five minutes they're parked in front of a pretty little cottage (Kurt chose it based on aesthetics) and they're unloading bags. Santana lets the boys handle it. She goes and stands at the edge of the river. The orange haze of day is finally fading. At least night still looks like night – the clouds of dust and destruction haven't blotted out the night, though she knows it will happen soon. She stares at the stars, and hopes she can memorize them before they disappear forever.

Where the sky hits the water is a shade of blue that reminds her of someone's eyes.

Santana frowns, because that's all a lot of poetic gibberish, and she's never been one to let her heart get in the way of her brain. Still, she must have been standing there longer than she thought, because by the time she's back at the house the car has been turned off. A pair of candles are winking from a window, and she can't quite keep a fond smile from gracing her face. Kurt. Of course.

She walks in the front door, surprising Finn.

"Hey," she says, nodding at him. He shrugs back.

"Where is everyone?" she asks. Finn frowns, and glances at her. She wonders, briefly, if she has something on her face, he looks so intense.

"We left them at the hotel," he says slowly. "Remember?"

God, Santana thinks, how is it possible for anyone to be that stupid? "I meant Kurt and Blaine," she says, speaking slowly. "Where are they?"

"Oh," Finn says. Before he answers, there's a strain of music coming from just upstairs, and the sound of water hitting porcelein tiles. "Kurt's taking a shower. I don't know how, though, there isn't any electricity."

"Plumbing and electricity are completely separate," Santana says absently. Finn scratches his head.

"Yeah, that's what Kurt said, too. I don't get it though. . .they both come through the walls. . ."

"What about Blaine? Where is he?"

"Don't know," Finn says. "He went out the back."  
Santana looks outside, where the moon is reflecting off the water. It's June, and between the summer weather and the greenhouse effect caused by the bombs, it's hot. The water, which is probably disgusting and polluted, so close to the city, seems inviting. She turns to Finn, a wicked smile on her face.

"Do you want to go skinny-dipping?"

"I. . .wha. . .no! I have a _girlfriend_."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Calm down, Frankenteen, I'm not trying to get _in_ your pants, I'm just trying to get you _out_ of them. Have a cold shower when Kurt's done. I'll be in the river if you need me."

It's a good idea, Santana thinks at first. She's a good swimmer, a strong swimmer. But as she gets closer to the water, she's less certain. It is a river, after all, and it's certain to have a current. There's nobody nearby to hear her if she calls out. If just one person were there with her, she'd jump in, just to prove she wasn't a wimp, just to prove she has the balls to swim it. But there's nobody there. She puts one toe in the water. It's cold, water from the mountains headed down toward the ocean. It isn't a good idea, but she doesn't want to go back inside and admit defeat.

There's a splashing sound, that at first she attributes to fish, or maybe birds. But there's been no sign of wildlife since they left the bunker. She glances up.

There's somebody else swimming in the river. The moonlight reflects off pale skin. He – whoever he is – shimmers a little in the moonlight. Santana rubs at her eyes, because this kind of shit doesn't happen in real life. Not unless you're Brittany, and live in some kind of a rainbow-infested, unicorn-populated hippy land.

Whoever is out there is swimming strangely. His legs kick strongly, and his arm slips smoothly under the current, but there's a kind of off-balance kilter. Santana slips out of her jeans. If that guy can swim, so can she, and then there won't be any explaining to do when she goes back in the house dry. Though, in all honesty, Finn probably isn't bright enough to ask any question anyway.

She's pulling off her shirt when the figure starts heading toward her. She pauses, wearing only her underwear, and feels uncomfortable. Which is ridiculous, because she's Santana Lopez, and she has a rocking body, and she's fully capable of taking care of herself. Still. She slips her feet back into her shoes, just in case she has to run, or kick him in the balls.

He stands up when he's closer, and dark hair is plastered over his face, obscuring his features. He's not that cute, Santana thinks critically. He's too thin, for one thing, though she does appreciate the curling black hair covering his chest and running down the center of his stomach. At least he's not fat. She hates fat men.

He shakes his head once as he walks out, looking like a dog shaking. And then Santana giggles, because she sees why his swimming gait was off, and _God_ it's just too funny that she's staring at him naked.

He glances up at her laughter, and his cheeks instantly burn bright red. "Santana!" he gasps. He's wearing boxers, but his hand still drops to cover himself. She laughs a little more. "It's not. . .listen can. . ." It's even funnier, because in the short time she's known him, Blaine Anderson has _always_ had something to say, and it's always been sickeningly wise and mature, but he's standing there stuttering at her. "can you just hand me my towel?"

She sees it, then, lying on the ground just behind her, so she picks it up. But it's too good an opportunity to waste. He's blushing, embarrassed, and stuttering, and sometimes Santana likes to think that she's still got it. Plus, she'd vowed once to turn this one straight, and she kind of wants to give it another go.

"Come and get it, _lindo_," she practically purrs at him. His eyebrows shoot up, disappearing beneath wet curls, and he sighs a little, his eyes getting a puppy dog quality to them.

"Santana, please, I'm tired. . .just hand me the towel."

She waves it a little bit, taunting him. He makes a face, and it's absolutely _adorable_, so she takes a step back, playing just a little bit. He jerks forward, arm darting out. The moonlight shines just so on his arm, and she sees it. She lets him grab the towel, but she grabs his wrist.

"What's this?" she asks.

"What?" he asks innocently, but he's turning the insides of his arms away, hiding them, so she's pretty sure she isn't crazy. She grasps his forearm with her other hand, and twists it. It probably hurts. She doesn't really care.

"Blaine, what the _fuck_ is this?"

There are two, thin scars on his arm. A vertical one, running from right near his wrist up to nearly his elbow. A second scar runs horizontal, cutting a nasty x right down the middle.

"Why haven't I seen this?"

She already knows the answer. Because he always wears long-sleeves. . .hell, the boy always wears a shirt and blazer, if he can help it. His other arm had been too mangled to see anything on it. . .she assumes that it was similarly scarred. She draws one finger along them. They're old, at least. Healed over years ago.

"It's not a big deal," Blaine says awkwardly, and this time when he tries to pull his arm back she lets him. "It was a long time ago." She's glad that he's not denying it, at least.

"You don't still think about that, do you?"

He doesn't answer her. Which is better than lying, Santana thinks, but so, so much worse than the answer she wants to hear.

She doesn't even have time to control herself, her hand is flying, and ringing with a satisfying crack against his face. He turns to glare at her, and this time the red on his cheek isn't from embarrassment.

"What was that for?"

His eyes are almost black in the darkness. She sneers. She's so. . .so. . .fucking _pissed off_. Because somewhere along the line, Blaine became her friend, and she began to care about him, and he's thinking about. . .about. . .

"How dare you?" she seethes. He's still alive. He's still alive, and he's thinking about ending that, when Mercedes is gone, and Mike's hacking up a lung, and Brittany is. . .and Brittany. . .and. . .her hand raises for another slap, but he catches it this time.

"Don't touch me," he seethes.

"I don't talk about feelings," Santana says. "Okay? I just don't. But if you. . .if you think about that you're going to piss me off more. Okay?"

"That's not talking about feelings," Blaine says. "Stop closing yourself off." He drops her hand, and it feels like a dismissal. Santana grabs her shirt off the ground, pull is on.

"Stop closing _myself_ off? Really? I'm not the one who tried to _kill_ myself."

That snaps something in Blaine, and he shoves her roughly in the shoulder. She stares at him, because no one, _no one_ has ever touched her like that before. "Don't. . ." he says, and his voice is trembling. "Just don't. I'm fine, okay? I'm fine."

She stares at him. Something clicks. The way that he wanted to get out, to leave the safety of the bunker, even though it meant facing more radiation. Swimming, alone, in a lake. Being the first one to enter every house, every hotel, every building. Letting a scared kid with a chainsaw anywhere near his arm. She stares at him, and she doesn't see a kid who's okay, she sees one who is unraveling at the seams, held together by Scotch tape and glue. She puts her hand on his shoulder, but he jerks away.

"Don't you leave us," she hisses. "Don't you think of it, you asshat. We need you."

"You need each other," Blaine says. He wraps the towel around himself, awkwardly with one hand. "You need your choir director, and your families, and your glee club. You don't need me. You don't even know me."

He turns around, and he's walking away, the moonlight glinting off his dark hair. It sounds a little too much like a good-bye to Santana, and she can't take another good-bye. Her dad, who was supposed to love her, left with just an insurance policy and child support reminding her that he'd ever existed. Her mom worked all night. Puck left her to be with Quinn. Brittany left her for Artie. And now Brittany's sick and she can't. She just can't lost another person.

"I love you!" she called out. He stops for a minute, and turns around.

"No, you don't," he says. Between the sneer on his face and the harsh words, she feels like a dagger's been thrust through her heart. She gasps. "You can't," he sounds a little sad now, and though his eyes are turned toward her again, she knows that he doesn't see her. She barely catches his next words. "You can't love someone else if you don't even love yourself."

He turns again, and she wants to curl up right there, on the dew-ridden grass and cry, but she won't, because she's Santana Lopez, and she never stops fighting. Never.

"Kurt then," she says. "Kurt loves you."

He won't deny that. He doesn't dare. But he doesn't stop walking, either. She feels like another bit of her life has been churned out and stomped on, and she doesn't understand where this came from. She just wants to help. . .why does being honest have to hurt so fucking much?

She leaves her jeans on the grass, and practically runs back to the house. Blaine somehow beats her inside, but she doesn't care. She doesn't want to see him anymore, doesn't want to admit that he's broken, maybe more broken than her, and she can't fix him. She just wants to be with someone for the night, just wants to feel someone's arms around her. Just for one minute, Santana wants to be allowed to break.

**A/N: This can only lead to bad things. . .where's Blaine headed? What about Santana? Two bets, but you'll only need one. . .**

**Coming up: Rachel and Puck have a heart to heart, Finn has a fantastic dream, and there is finally some definite Klaine. Also: Jesse st. James returns, and Team Save McKinley is born! **


	11. Midnight in New York

13:57

**A/N: Wow, I don't even know what to say. . .thank you all sooooo much for the reviews! I'm so glad that those of you reading outside your normal preferences have been enjoying the story. So thank you, thank you, thank you, and those of you with a dislike of Santana. . .um. . .well, you're really going to hate her after this chapter.**

Mr. Schue sleeps through most of the early afternoon, and into the night. It's a fitful sleep, composed mostly of coughing and shifting around on the bed. Rachel sighs, and puts her chin on her hand as she continues to watch him. The moon drifts in over her shoulder. It's a strange orange color, no doubt due to all of the dust and iron in the atmosphere.

She's bored, really bored, and she's wondering why she stayed behind. Misplaced sense of civic duty, she supposes. Her new mission to be a good person and help everyone out kind of stinks.

Noah walks into the room, wearing a pair of loose sweats and a t-shirt. He's still wet from the shower. He looks good. Rachel blushes a little at that thought, because she's with Finn now, and she shouldn't be appreciating how attractive other men look. Even when they look really, _really_ attractive.

"'Sup?" he asks, plopping himself down beside her on the bed. "He still breathing?"

"Yes, Noah," she says, and she allows just a tinge of her exasperation into her voice. "He's still breathing. Really, you should be showing a little more compassion. He's your teacher, after all."

"Not a very good one," he says. She raises an eyebrow, and he just shrugs. "What? It's not mean if it's true."

They sit for a moment, watching the shadows dance across their choir director's face. He looks old, Rachel realizes, and she wonders how long he's looked that old. Though, maybe it's just a result of wandering, lost and alone in the forest. She wonders what he was doing.

"Probably looking for us," Noah says. Rachel didn't realize she'd spoken aloud. "I mean. . .he was kind of a tool, but he did care. He cared a lot."

She sniffles a little. Curse her overly trained tear ducts. Her ability to cry on demand is unfortunately also tied to overly emoting at the most awkward times. Puck leans over, and pats her hand. "S'okay," he says awkwardly. "I'll put him in the car tomorrow, and we'll drive home. Coach Sylvester probably has some kind of medical marvel that will fix him."

She nods, smiling through her tears (like all the bravest divas do). But then she frowns, because there's still that missing piece to the puzzle.

"Noah," she says slowly. "Why did you stay here? Why didn't you go with the boys?"

He doesn't say anything to that. He just takes his gaze away, and proceeds to look at Mr. Schue. Rachel doesn't say anything, although she's biting her tongue a little to keep her words inside. She tastes copper.

There's a light thump, and a heaviness in her lap. Surprised, Rachel looks down. She picks up the tiny book, and leafs through it. She recognizes their outfits from Regionals, of course. It's the last page that makes her really pause. Baby Beth is being held in Shelby's arms. Trembling, her finger traces over the lines of the other woman's face.

"That's my mother," she says softly. Noah starts a little at that, and she realizes that he probably forgot. It's okay. . .she thinks that everyone in Glee club has forgotten. Except her, of course. She wonders if Shelby's okay, if she's even alive.

"I have an address," Noah says. "From Quinn. I was going to go there to see if Beth"

"Can I come?"

She interrupts him, and of course it's rude, but she can't help it. Maybe she's backsliding into selfish-Rachel mode. She should be allowed. Her dad's are dead, and her boyfriend is off with Santana, and she just really needs her mom.

Noah, for once, doesn't say anything smart-alecky or hurtful. He just smiles at her, that little secret smile that he saves just for her, and nods his head.

* * *

Kurt's busy trying to dry off every single little drop of moisture. There isn't any heat, and his shower had been horrendously cold. He hates cold showers (and he'd never found it funny when Finn had joked that he must take a lot of them after gym class at Dalton). Still, he supposes that it's still nice to take a shower, and he certainly feels better now than he did after hours of driving.

He pulls on his pajama pants, and considers for a moment. Does he want to wear the matching top, or just a plain white t-shirt. Decisions, decisions. Made even more imperative by the fact that clearly nobody else on the face of the planet is bothering to consider fashion. Which means that he, Kurt Hummel, is single-handedly responsible for restoring the world to its previous levels of fabulous.

It's a tall order, even for him.

He's just decided to wear the matching top when his door swings open, hard enough that it bounces a little on the hinges. He sighs. At some point Finn is just going to have to accept the fact that he's a giant, and begin taking it easier on all of the household objects around. He's just about to (quietly) berate his oaf of a brother, when a hand presses on his shoulder. He turns.

Blaine is standing in front of him, his face inches away. A portion of Kurt's brain is mentioning that his friend is breaking social convention and invading personal space, but the majority of it is just trying to catch up. His heart is pounding and those stupid butterflies have reinvaded his stomach. He bites his lip, and his heart thunders harder, because he's never seen Blaine like this.

The other boy is wet, like he's just stepped out of the shower himself. He's holding a towel around his waist, but as far as Kurt can see, that's all he has on for clothing. His hazel eyes are swimming with tears, and his lip is trembling just a little. When he turns, the light falls on his cheekbones, and his eyes disappear into shadow.

"Oh, hi, Blaine," Kurt says, trying and failing for some semblance of normalcy.

"Kurt do you. . ." Blaine pauses and shudders a little. Kurt reaches up and puts his hand over the other boy's. Go on, he thinks. Say it. . .just say it.

"Do you love me?"

A soft whoosh of air leaves his lips, and Kurt is so, so glad that he's already said those words, because it would be too heart-breaking to be struck silent just then. "You know that I do," he says. "I love you. What's wrong?"

"What if. . .what if I did something really bad."

Kurt's trying not to smile, because he can tell that something's upset his friend, but he can't quite stop. The idea of Blaine doing something—_anything_—truly bad is impossible to comprehend. This was the boy who took a scared, gay kid out for coffee, who held a funeral for a dead bird, who never forgot a birthday or a holiday.

"What if I tried to kill someone."

That's enough to wipe the smile off Kurt's face. It's a hypothetical, though, of course it is, because if Blaine had really tried to kill someone (and he wouldn't – he _couldn't_) he'd be in jail. Kurt would have heard about it. So it's a hypothetical. But Kurt's not really feeling in the mood for games, and he suddenly feels incredibly tired and just wants to go to sleep. Sometimes unrequited (or almost unrequited, because Kurt is still pretty sure that Blaine feels _something_ for him) love is just exhausting.

So he lets go of Blaine's hand, and instead cups the other boy's face, and leans forward so that their foreheads are touching and their eyes are gazing straight forward. "Blaine Anderson, I love you. I don't care what you've done in the past, and I don't care what ridiculous questions you throw at me, I love you. But I'm tired, and I want to go to sleep, so. . ."

He's completely prepared to leave it there. His heart's on the table but it's been there for weeks now. He doesn't feel vulnerable, because Blaine cares for him, whether it's love or not, and he's not going to lose this friendship. So he's prepared to go to sleep, and wait for the morning when they both pretend nothing happened. What he's not prepared for is the low, half-growl, half-sob in Blaine's throat, or the way there are suddenly fingers threading through his hair, or the way a pair of lips are suddenly crashing into his own.

Reflexively, Kurt closes his eyes – that's what you're supposed to do when someone's kissing you, right? He thinks so, from the movie's he's seen, and from that brief time with Brittany. Except. . .he twitches a little. Except he can't _feel_ anything, and he doesn't know what Blaine's doing, all he knows is that there are still those choking, sobbing noises and. . .

His thought process abruptly shuts off.

Somehow, Blaine has pried his mouth open.

Somehow, he's gotten his tongue in Kurt's mouth.

And, oh holy Grilled Cheesus, Kurt can _taste_ him. He can _taste_ Blaine, and it's cinnamon and mouth wash, and something little acrid from the lake.

It's like nothing he's ever felt, nothing he's ever. . .oh _God_.

Except then Blaine is pulling back, and his face is pressed against Kurt's neck, and. . .guh.

"Say it again," Blaine pleads. "Please, just. . ."

"I love you," Kurt says, but his voice is kind of dull. Blaine pulls back a little, slouched. Kurt grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him in closer. "I love you," He hisse, placing a kiss to Blaine's collarbone. Experimenting, he lets his tongue dart out. Blaine's skin is salty, sharp, _warm_. Somebody gasps.

"I love you," Kurt says, licking his way up Blaine's neck. It's intoxicating, and they've drawn close again, and now he can _smell_ Blaine, and that's nothing new, it's not like Blaine never had a scent before, but it's so heady, so, so, so

Blaine is making strange little mewling noises, deep in the back of his neck. I'm doing that to him, Kurt realizes with shock. His tongue darts out, catches Blaine's earlobe. It's dizzying, and he doesn't know if he can take all of the sensations. He can't feel the hands exploring his body, or the lips on his own chest, but he can taste, and smell, and hear, and see, and it's enough.

It's so much more than enough.

"Say it again," Blaine whispers.

* * *

Finn is snoring. He's lying on his back, atop the couch, one arm flung out and a thin line of drool falling from his lips. He's twitching a little in his sleep, probably snoring. Santana doesn't care. She just needs someone to hold her, just needs to feel a warm body beneath her.

She's like a lizard, that way.

So she climbs on top of him, one leg on either side of his hips, effectively straddling him. She lowers herself until the length of their bodies is touching. He smells like old clothes and car oil and boy. When she kisses him he tastes like dip.

He doesn't open his eyes, not at first, but his lips move against hers, and one hand moves, probably subconsciously, snaking around her waist. He mumbles something against her. She twists a little, to nip at his ear. When he moans this time, it's audible and clear.

"Rachel. . ."

It's not her name, but she doesn't care. Santana's always been good at pretending.

He does open his eyes then, but his gaze is clouded, uncertain. He's walking that fine land between dreams and wakefulness. She doubts he'll remember this in the morning, and if it does, it will just be fuzzy recollections of dark hair and hungry lips. She can live with that, with being a ghost.

So she nuzzles his neck, and bites down hard. He may not remember her, but he'll wake up with a bruise on his neck, and she'll know she's marked him. It may not be love, but possession is halfway there, isn't it? And she does care for him. . .he's a friend, and friend's help one another when they're sad, or lonely.

But when Finn mutters Rachel's name again, and pulls her in tighter against his own body, Santana know that's a lie, too. But that's okay. Santana's always been good at pretending.

**A/N: In many ways, I hate the Klaine seen here, because they're really just using each other. It's a pretty desperate scene, and not really about love at all – it's about a desperate need to **_**be**_** loved on the part of Blaine, and a desperate desire to **_**feel**_** on the part of Kurt. But I firmly believe that these two characters, in this particular world, do love each other, and I hope that comes out through the rest of the story, because otherwise they have a pretty needy, unhealthy relationship.**

**Coming up: MY FAVORITE CHAPTER YET! Hopefully y'all enjoy it. Jesse st. James returns, Sam creates a legion of superheroes, and Mike sleeps. Also, our jolly quad of adventurers enter the city and find out the darker side of humanity. Gasp!**


	12. Jesse

13:57

**A/N: Once again, thanks for the reviews. Enjoy this chapter – it's my favorite in this story. Lots and lots of joyous, comic relief, to make up for the last two chapters overload of ANGST**

Jesse st. James is meant to be a star. He knows this, his high school peers knew it, and he has little doubt that the UCLA glee club knows it. He's better than other people, plain and simple.

Yet somehow, with the whole advent of bombs going off and radiation spewing through the atmosphere, he's been relegated to a position of mediocrity. Living underground, eating canned goods, and being paired off with some high school bimbo who can barely count to fifteen. . .it's not who he's meant to be.

The other members of his glee club keep saying that he should be glad to be alive, glad that he hadn't gotten sick, and hadn't gotten mutated like them. He feels like telling them it's all a moot point, because he is, after all, miles beyond them, evolutionarily speaking, and of course he wouldn't face the same after-effects. What, after all, can radiation do against superior genetics and good breeding?

He'd felt a little better when New Directions was around. He still feels a kinship with them, despite the fact that they glare at him and huff when they see him. But Rachel Berry had real talent, and Finn was a nice guy (a complete moron, but a nice guy). Kurt was adorable, and that new kid, the curly-haired one, was absolutely delish. So when he'd walked through the hideous underground lair and seen them, he'd felt a sense of solidarity. They were stars, being forced underground with talentess drivel.

But then at some point they'd left. And Jesse's glee club was. . .horrors. . .integrating with the football players and the cheerleaders, leaving him effectively without a group of admirers. Jesse doesn't know what to do without admirers. . .it makes him question his own worth. Which is why he decides to check in with the remaining members of the McKinley club, despite the fact that he can't remember any of their names, and he doubts they'll be able to offer much in the way of companionship.

Problem is that he can't find them. They don't have rooms, evidently, and they neither head to the lunchroom, nor to the makeshift gym for Sue's mandatory calisthenics. Which are a complete waste, in Jesse's opinion, as they are focused primarily on muscle mass building and cardio. Except. . .he frowns. There is one kid in the gym that he almost recognizes. . .brown hair, blue eyes and glasses. Except that the nerd he remembers was in a wheelchair, and this kid is jogging (painfully slowly, but still) around the room. Still. Jesse st. James never forgets a face (people as talented as he rarely forget anything) and that face is familiar.

He corners him after Sue has blown her whistle and screamed at everyone to clear out before her afternoon enema. The kid is sweating something awful, and his already stringy-hair is clinging to his cheekbones. Jesse doesn't sweat – he perspires – and he knows that he looks absolutely dashing.

"Hey there," he says, sticking out a hand. "New Directions, right?"

The kid doesn't answer for a minute, just transfers his gaze between Jesse's outstretched hand and face. Jesse knows that he's beautiful, but it's still a little unnerving, the way the kid is squinting and frowning at him. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he reaches out and shakes hands.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"Of course I do," Jesse huffs. "I came over to greet you, didn't I?"

"Artie," the kid says. "You know, we're not really your biggest fan."

"Ah, the unfortunate incident with Rachel. I do regret that, truly."

"You threw eggs at her."

"I admit, it was in bad taste."

"She's vegan."

"Is she? That must have slipped my mind."

The kid – Artie – sighs at that, and turns around to leave. Jesse falls into step beside him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I thought we could chat, catch up. It feels like forever."

Artie stares at him, and the way the kid's mouth is hanging open is really highly unattractive. Not that the poor kid would ever be a poster boy for. . .well, for anything. (Jesse already has a contract with L'Oreal.)

"Say," Jesse says, trying to make conversation, because clearly his presence has awed the poor kid into a sad state of speechlessness. "Weren't you in a wheelchair the last time I saw you?"

Artie shakes his head, a little wryly, and pushes open the door to the Infirmary. "A lot of things have changed since you last saw me," he says.

Jesse wants to roll his eyes, because really, how pedantic and pedestrian. The off-handedness of the comment is a clear allusion to the fact that they have survived a nuclear attack and that the entire world has changed, while simultaneously employing a clichéd turn of expression. But Jesse st. James is far too evolved by now to engage in such a juvenile activity as rolling his eyes. Instead he sniffs. It's what everyone is doing on the West Coast these days.

The Quarantine room is nearly bursting, which is ridiculous, since Jesse distinctly remembers Sue Sylvester informing all of them that everyone in the bunker has passed inspection, and although "all those Glee kids deserve to die slow, painful deaths, and it appears that some of them may, they are clearly not contagious." Still, he spots about half of New Directions.

There's the pretty blond cheerleader – no longer with a bowling ball up her shirt, which he assumes means that she dropped the baby – and the Asian couple. Wheels, or sans-Wheels, and then the half-retarded chick. There's another blonde kid hanging around (pretty cute, except that Jesse thinks he might be able to fit an entire music stand in the kids mouth), but he doesn't pay much attention. He mostly notices the absences.

"Um. . .what's _he_ doing here?" Blondie asks, her nose in the air. Oh, that's right. Jesse had almost forgotten that she's a heinous bitch.

"I don't know," Artie says. "He kind of just followed me here. Like a dog."

"Well, get _rid_ of him," Blondie says. Jesse resents that.

"I resent that."

There, that should tell them. But Blondie rolls her eyes (clearly, she hasn't learned how trite that expression is). Lips is just looking around curiously.

"Should I remember this guy?" he asks. For some reason that sets everybody off laughing.

"For once, no," Artie says.

"He was around way before you," the Asian – Tina, Jesse thinks her name is – chimes in. Blondie pats his hand reassuring. Jesse wonders why she's wearing gloves when they're inside.

"Don't worry about it, darling," she says.

"Wasn't planning on it," the kid says chipperly. "Besides, I'll just forget in a bit anyway."

"I'm afraid we haven't been properly introduced," Jesse says, because it's a little annoying having to think of all these people as He and She and That One. He extends his hand to Lips. "I'm Jesse st. James, lead vocalist for the UCLA men's glee club."

"And eternal douche," Blondie adds helpfully. Lips smiles toothily, and gamely leans forward.

"Sam Evans," he says. "Nice to meet you."

"You as well," Jesse says. He hops up on the bed beside the other boy, and briskly rubs his hands together. "Now. What are we discussing?"

They all stare at him for a moment, before evidently deciding that his presence isn't too onerous and returning to their discussion.

"I think it's important," Blondie says. "There are plenty of people just hiding in houses. Other kids. . .we shouldn't just be sitting in here, safe. It's not what Blaine would want. Or Finn."

"But there's still radiation," Tina points out. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"I read somewhere that radiation increases the risk of cancer," Artie says. "Personally, I have no desire to die of cancer."

"But. . ." Quinn sighs, and shakes her head. "You guys weren't there. . .Puck's sister was just sitting in that house. And Santana's little siblings. . .if we don't help them, who will?"

"Quinn's right," Sam says, nodding his head fervently. Jesse finds himself strangely transfixed by the other boy's hair. Which is noticeably darker at the roots. Hmm. . .a closet dyer, perhaps? "There's a hero in all of us, that keeps us honest, gives us strength, makes us noble, and finally allows us to die with pride."

Jesse finds himself nodding along. Wiser words were never spoken. Artie, meanwhile, is shaking his head in disbelief.

"Whoa. . .did you just quote _Spiderman_ to me?"

Sam's face goes from pale to bright red in zero to fifteen. Jesse st. James is duly impressed.

"Well, I for one, am going out," Blondie says. She wrinkles her nose. "Besides, I don't think I can handle staying underground all this time, anyway.

"I go with Quinn," Sam says. He turns to Artie. "Remind me of that, okay?"

"Sure thing, bro," Artie says. He sighs, and glances to the unconscious moron. "I understand where y'all coming from. . .but I think I've got to stay here."

"Me, too," Tina says. "I'm sorry, Quinn. Sorry, Sam."

"I will come," Jesse says, surprising himself. Apparently he's surprising New Directions, too, because they're all staring at him with slack jaws. He thinks maybe it's their default expression. "Never let it be said that Jesse st. James doesn't help out the little people." He waits for them to speak. They don't. "Speaking of little people. . .where is Rachel Berry, anyway?"

"Oh my God, I'm going to kill him," Quinn says. Jesse wonders to whom she is referring.

**A/N: Also, just a warning: headed out of town next week, so there will be no updates for a while. I'll try to bust out the next chapter Sunday night before I leave – it will be a doozy, no worries.**

**Coming up: The DOOZY! Flashbacks! Gunshots! Professions of Love! Post-apocalyptic cities! Pills! Blood! Etc.! Etc.!**

**Also, as requested, a list of all the mutations, exluding the ones that haven't been explicitly stated (Finn's has been LIGHTLY alluded to, and Tina's more heavily)**

**Finn: ?**

**Rachel: Lost her sense of pitch**

**Blaine: ?**

**Kurt: Inability to feel**

**Quinn: Emanates heat**

**Puck: Inability to feel pain**

**Artie: Can walk!**

**Brittany: ?**

**Tina: ? **

**Mike: Glows**

**Santana: Sees auras**

**Sam: ? Has amnesia**


	13. Anderson

13:57

**A/N: One day late, sorry, but here is the monster chapter. Hopefully it tides you over until next week! **

Blaine doesn't want to open his eyes. He must still be dreaming, because he's warm, and comfortable, and he can feel a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, and soft breath on his shoulders. He's sleeping on clouds, and it feels heavenly. He can't remember the last time that someone hugged him. Sure, he's tactile, and he's all for the handholding and physical contact, but he can't remember the last time he didn't have to initiate it. But he's asleep, so this can't be his doing.

A knocking at the door causes his eyes to flash open, completely without his volition. He's staring straight at it, and he holds his breath. Maybe if he doesn't move, the knocker will go away and he can return to sleep.

"Kurt?" It's Finn's voice, sounding gravelly and still a little sleepy. "Are you awake yet? Do you know where Blaine is?"

There's a mumbling behind him, and Blaine freezes. He's pretty sure that he would never, ever dream about Finn's voice, unless maybe it was in a nightmare and they were running from zombies or something. But if it's not a dream, then. . .

A thick rush of shame washes ove him as he remembers everything from the previous night. How he'd. . .he'd busted in the door and practically forced himself on the other boy. And. . .had he been crying? That's just embarrassing.

"I'll be right down, Finn," Kurt says. Blaine lets out a slow breath. The hands around his waist slowly disentangle, and the warmth at his back recedes. Blaine slowly twists around to face the other boy.

"Hi," he says. Kurt's face is bright red. He's biting his lip, and he won't look at Blaine. Not good. Blaine's pretty sure that they can get past this, that they can talk and still be friends. He's pretty sure they're close enough that this won't ruin everything.

"Hi," Kurt says, and for just a moment his eyes flick up, swirling Carribean waters beneath his thin lashes.

Oh, Blaine thinks, a little stupidly. There you are.

"Did you, uh, sleep well?" Kurt laughs, light and breathless.

"Yeah. How about you?"

"Better than I have in weeks," Blaine says truthfully, and then realizes how that sounds. Oh, God. He's such a loser. Kurt smiles shyly, before leaning over and kissing him lightly on the cheek.

"I'm going to get changed," he says. "Maybe you should put on some clothes yourself."

Blaine glances down at himself for the first time, and realizes with another shot of humiliation that he's only wearing a pair of boxers. And they aren't even his dapper boxers – they're the leprechaun ones that Wes bought him for the annual Warbler Secret Santa.

_"What on earth are these for?" Blaine's eyes were wide and terrified looking._

_ "Yeah, Wes, what are those for?" David laughed, along with most of the rest of the boys. Wes just rolled his eyes._

_ "Are you. . .propositioning Warbler Blaine?" Thad asked._

_ "Usually you don't buy lingerie until the six monthiversary," David said._

_ "Please," Wes said, shaking his head, though his mouth was quirking up in a smile. "I am wholly devoted to my girlfriend. But Blaine sucks at relationships. I thought maybe with some new clothing he might. . .get lucky."_

By the time Blaine has returned to his room and changed his own clothing, everyone else is wide awake and packed to go. He feels a little awful, being the one to hold everybody up, but there's not really anything he can do about it. Finn seems to be in an unusually good mood, even for him. Santana, on the other hand, is reserved. Blaine can't keep from looking at her. She knows.

In a way, he's glad. It's never been a hard secret to keep. . .by the end of his first wek at Dalton he'd calmed down, and by the end of his first year he'd been on the anti-depressants. Wes and David know. . .maybe Thad. . .but that's it. He's used to wearing long sleeve shirts. It's not a problem.

It's been hard since the bombs, though. He's back to feeling alone and unwanted. . .back to wondering what's the whole point. So he's glad that she knows, because death terrifies him, and he's glad that someone will be there to look out for him.

Kurt hands him a banana, and their eyes meet for a moment before they both look away, light flushes covering their cheeks. While Kurt is still looking away, Blaine sneaks another glance. Something is confusing him, about Kurt, something. . .

But he can't put his finger on it, and Finn is practically pushing them out the door, and Santana still looks like she's eaten a zillion sour grapes.

Blaine is the only one of them who has ever been to New York. . .the only one ever to leave the city limits of Ohio, actually. He doesn't have the heart to tell them that they'll only make it as far as the Bronx before they'll have to walk, doesn't have the heart to point out that the rush hour traffic of Lima doesn't come even close to midnight in the city. Kurt manages to make it to the drivers' seat first.

"Shottie!" Finn exclaims excitedly. Blaine decides to let him have it. He can't remember the last time he sat in the back, and he kind of wants to talk to Santana. She, on the other hand, clearly wants nothing to do with him, turning to stare out the window the minute he takes his seat. Which is fine, really, beause he has plenty of thinking of his own to do.

_"You should tell your parents_," _Scott said. "You have to."_

_ "I don't think so," Blaine said. They were sitting together at lunch, near the trash cans. It was the only seat the jocks avoided, probably because of the smells. Lunch was the only period that Blaine really, really hated. It was the only class where he had to admit that, even though the girls all liked him, the guys didn't. He didn't have any friends. _

_ "You can't keep a secret like this," Scott said earnestly, and in that moment, Blaine kind of wanted to slap him. Because Scott was so flaming that he'd been born outside the closet. Nobody made assumptions about him. There was never any question. Sure, it sucked, because Scott had never known a life without bullying, but at least he'd never had to come out. At least people didn't whisper about him in the hallways._

_ At least his parents didn't keep setting him up with nice girls from church._

_ "My parents aren't like yours," Blaine said. "I'm not like you. It's different."_

_ Blaine played soccer. He was in the theater department. He got good grades. He was going to get into a great college, and if he didn't get a scholarship, his parents would pay for it. He didn't want to give any of that up, and he was terrified that if he told his parents – if he told his dad – it would all go away. He'd be sent to one of those Jesus Camps that were made to fix kids like him. Besides, it was just five more years. Next year he'd go to high school, and things would be easier._

_ "You have to tell them," Scott said. He reached out, trying to cover Blaine's hand with his own, but Blaine pulled back. Scott looked hurt for a moment, but then just shook his head resolutely. "If you don't tell them, I will."_

There isn't any traffic on the bridge. There isn't a car at all. Blaine's surprised, and a dark feeling nestles in the bottom of his stomach. He doesn't say a word. What's he supposed to say, really? Hey, guys, this is going really well, let's keep it up?

There aren't any cars as they drive through the Bronx, either. Blaine frowns. Sure, there are cars parked along the sides of the roads, but none blocking traffic lanes. Even in Ohio, and on the expressway, they'd had to drive off-road for bits to avoid the vehicles that had been abandoned. But in the city, the streets are clear. That uncomfortable feeling in his stomach is growing stronger and stronger.

They stop at the George Washington Bridge because Blaine makes them. Kurt's pouting a little (it's adorable) and Finn is confused, but they stop and climb out for a moment.

"Shotgun," Blaine says absently when everyone is out.

"Awww, man. . ." Finn mutters.

And then they just stand there, and stare at the city. Blaine hasn't been here in years, not since before he came out, not since before all the family drama, but he remembers the Empire State Building, and the Chrysler Center. He remembers the hideous MetLife building, the way he could just barely see the Financial District between all the buildings. He remembers the projects, standing out in their grotesque blocks. He remembers the glittering bridges.

But today. . .today everything is grey and dusty. And though the atmosphere as a whole is dingy and dirty, it's even worse over the city.

He can't see the Chrysler Buildng at all, and the Empire State Building is only half standing. Half of it is rafters and steel supports. Kurt takes a shaking breath. Santana groans, low below her breath. Finn blinks.

"Huh," he says. "It's a lot smaller than I thought it would be."

Blaine closes his eyes. It's humbling, to look at this once-great city, and see how it's in ruins. It's a black scar now. He just doesn't understand how people can be so cruel, how they can fight and war and wipe one another out. . .he forces his eyes open, forces himself to look past the sheen of tears at the shattered remnants of his dream. He'd wanted to move here, once, wanted to be part of a big, thriving city that accepted everyone. But that was stupid, of course, because nowhere is completely accepting. It was stupid, because people are cruel, and life is so fragile. His hand starts to snake down to his pocket, to his safety net. Kurt's fingers intercept his own.

He turns. Kurt isn't looking at him – he's just staring at the city, tear tracks running down his face, and more following in his path. Blaine's heart stops for a moment.

Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you.

He shakes his head, and the dream breaks. He squeezes Kurt's hand once, briefly. He smiles a little, and Kurt smiles back, shakily. Blaine isn't sure who is comforting who.

"So. . .uh. . .where do we go?" Finn asks. He's kicking a little bit at the ground, studiously looking _away_ from Kurt and Blaine which is just so. . .so. . .endearing. Blaine's still trying not to cry, but Finn's expression still draws out a light chuckle.

"Well, we booked a hotel on the Upper East Side, so I guess that's as good a place to start as any."

They pile back into the car, this time Blaine comfortably entrenched in his favorite seat. They start heading down MLK. Blaine cranes his neck around, staring up at the building. No bombs had hit this far from the Financial District, but even so, there are signs of the impact. Windows are broken. Trees are knocked over. And everywhere, coating everything, there's that horrible grey dust.

Kurt stops at the corner of Lexington and 86th street. "Um. . .I forgot the address," he says. Blaine frowns. He can't remember, either. He wishes he were wearing his Dalton blazer. . .the itinerary for their trip is probably still stuffed into the front pocket. Coach Sylvester probably burned it, though – if she hadn't, Kurt probably had.

"No," Finn says. He's frowning, a little thoughtfully, and shaking his head. "I think we should keep going."

Blaine glances back at Santana, but she's still staring out the window, completely disconnected from everyone. He frowns, a little hurt. She knows more of him than anyone else – he'd admitted things to her last night that he'd never told anyone. Sure, he said some cruel words in the heat of the moment, but it's _Santana_. If anyone can take shit, she can.

_"I came out to my friends when I was twelve years old, but I didn't tell my parents until I was fourteen. I used to come home with blood caked on my face, and when my mom asked what happened, I'd just tell her that I took a stick to the face, or ran into the goal. Something stupid. And then we'd sit down at dinner, and Dad would look at the newspaper and complaining about all the gay rights issues, and all the fags in the media, and the dykes in politics, and homos trying to take over the banks. So I didn't tell them._

_"And then we were looking at high schools, and I wanted to go to Carmel, which wasn't technically our school district, but it had a great glee club, and better academics than the local school. Mom volunteered to drive me. And then Dad said he thought it sounded great, as long as I didn't join the gayass glee club."_

_ Blaine paused for a moment. Santana was biting her bottom lip, staring at him._

_ "I go to church every Sunday," she said. "I care about my grades and I want to be a doctor. But nerds get slushees in their faces at my school, so I cheerlead and I sleep with guys, because it makes me popular."_

_ Blaine nodded._

_ "Did you join the glee club?"_

_ "No, I didn't. But I found a boy and I brought him home and I introduced him to my parents."_

_ "If I'm mean, then people don't get to know me," said Santana. "And if they don't know me, they can't dislike me."_

He wants to tell Santana that he cares about her, really cares about her. She's one of his best friends, now, and he kind of wonders when that happened. But he can't say anything, because Finn is there, still frowning, his tongue hanging a little out of his mouth. There's a part of Blaine that wants to say no to the other boy, that wants to insist that they find the hotel. . .

Except that it was Finn who led them to Elias' cabin, Finn who took them unerringly to the hotel that the UCLA glee club had been, Finn who found Coach Sylvester and the underground bunker, Finn who found Mr. Schue in the middle of the woods. . .

It was probably silly. It was just coincidence, of course, because nothing else could explain it. Sure, the radiation had made Mike glow, and caused Quinn to burn, and made Puck and Kurt insensitive, but it couldn't. . .

And yet

"Keep going," Blaine says. Kurt looks surprised, and looks like he wants to argue. There must be something in Blaine's eyes, though – maybe the confusion that he's feeling himself, or maybe determination, or maybe just the fear that's coursing through his body right now. They're so close, now.

"Okay," Kurt says.

They drive further, and with every mile the destruction gets worse. Every window is destroyed now, and bits of brick are blasted off. Facades are crumbling, and there aren't any cars on the road – it seems like they've all been thrown into buildings, or are lying, overturned, on sidewalks. The fine grey dust is coating everything now, thick like a layer of snow.

Blaine tries not to think of what that ash is composed of.

They're hitting 43rd street when Finn suddenly yells "Stop!" Kurt slames on the brakes, obviously surprised, and Blaine is thrown forward, glad that everyone is wearing a seatbelt.

"Finn, what are you _thinking_?" Kurt is in full bitch mode, turning around glaring. He doesn't even pause when Blaine puts a hand on his shoulder. "You can't just scream like that!"

Finn isn't paying attention. He just steps out of the car. Kurt is still muttering, and usually Blaine would sit and listen to him, but his stomach is running wild, and he thinks he's starting to sweat. Really, fresh air should do him some good.

"Where are they, Finn?" he asks. The other boy just shrugs, and looks around hopelessly.

"I don't. . .I don't know," he says, and he looks more confused than Blaine has ever seen him, which is really saying something. "I thought. . .I don't. . .I guess I was wrong?"

Santana has joined them by now. "We should split up," she says. "Look in some of these stores."

Blaine glances at Finn. The other boy still seems confused, but seems to agree with the idea. Blaine isn't sure that he agrees. . .splitting up seems like a bad idea, a dangerous idea. It's the kind of thing that happens in movies, except that then the black guy always dies, and then everyone else until only the virgin is still alive.

"Come on, Kurt," Santana says, and grabs the boys' hand. He glances at her, clearly surprised, but follows her as they walk into the nearest corner store. Blaine watches as Santana avoids his eyes, avoids Finn's.

"Where did you sleep last night?" Finn asks conversationally as they head across the street. He's in an unusually good mood, even for him, barely subdued at all by the ruins of the city. "It was so weird when I couldn't find you this morning."

"In one of the bedrooms," Blaine says. The glass to the corner store is busted in, and shards lie all over the ground. Most of the display cases are knocked over, empty. The cash register stands, forlorn on a broken counter. It's open, and there's no money inside it.

It shouldn't surprise him, really, that there are looters and people running around trying to take advantage. It makes sense. . .it happens in every city after a disaster, or a war. But for some reason he'd thought. . .it doesn't matter, though. Of course it doesn't.

"I slept on the couch, but it was _awesome_," Finn is saying, as he grabs a Ho-Ho and sticks it in his jacket pocket. "I had this crazy dream about Rachel. It seemed so real."

Blaine is beginning to think he understands why Santana has been so distant all morning, why she won't meet Finn's eyes. _Oh, baby_, he thinks. You're even more broken than I am. It's hard to believe that someone is so desperate for love, that she seeks it even in someone else's relationship. A little corner of his mind asks if that isn't what he was doing with Kurt.

That's completely different, he tells himself.

Really? He asks himself. How so?

Because I lo—

His thought process is broken off the sharp, angry sounds of a gunshot. His head jerks up, and he glances across at Finn. He knows that the terrified expression written across the other boy's face is mirrored on his own. He doesn't know what to do – whether to hide behind some of the overturned aisle counters, or call the police – but he can't call the police, there _are_ no police, not anymore – and then there's another gunshot, from across the street.

Everything in Blaine is screaming at him to hunker down, to make himself as small as possible, to avoid being noticed. They'll just walk by, he thinks. He won't bother them. They won't come in, and they won't raise their guns to his head, and they won't shoot him.

Because, his past to the contrary, Blaine really doesn't want to die.

_He could hear the doctor's voice, talking above him. He could hear his mother and father, too, all of them just standing and talking, as though he wasn't even there. In a way he wasn't. He was still all doped up on pain meds, and his throat burned, and his stomach felt so horribly, horribly empty. There was a dull ringing in his head despite the morphine. His eyes were closed. Even so. Even so he wanted to stand up and scream at them, I'm right here, I can hear you, I'm right here!_

_ But he didn't, of course, because he was only semi-there, and besides, it wouldn't matter. He'd already screamed at them once. It hadn't made a difference._

_ "Has he done this before?"_

_ "No, never."_

_ Lies._

_ His father, then. "I just can't believe. . .Dalton is supposed to be a good school. Can't they keep an eye on their students?"_

_ "Suicide can become a pattern," the doctor said, ignoring his father. "It can be a cry for help. A sign that something much deeper is going on. Are you sure he's never mentioned this before?"_

_ "No, never."_

_ Echoed lies._

_ "Excuse me."_

_ Wes's voice, meek and completely unlike him. Blaine tried to open his eyes then, really tried, because Wes had been a pretty great guy in his first week. He'd given him tours, and explained to him about the school, and even invited him to try out for the Warblers. He hoped Wes hadn't been the one to find him._

_ "He has. . .he has scars," Wes said. "You saw them?"_

_ "We saw them," The doctor said. "What do you know about them?"_

_ "Nothing," Wes said. "I don't really know the guy. He's only been at Dalton a week. He didn't really make any friends yet and. . .I just saw them."_

_ "I'm going to ask you one last time," the doctor said, and his voice sounded tired, exhausted. "Has he ever done this before?"_

_ "Just once. We got him help. We thought he was better."_

_ Lies again. He was still gay. He'd never be better_.

The gun fires again, and Blaine doesn't realize he's whimpering. There's a hand on his shoulder, and he glances up to see Finn. The other boy is staring across the street, and his face is a mix of confusion and heroism. Blaine doesn't understand it.

"That's not. . ." he swallows once. "That's not where Santana and Kurt are, is it?"

The bottom falls out of Blaine's world. Because, now that Finn has said it, now that the words are out, he knows that it is. Those guys – whoever they are – aren't just shooting for shits and giggles, they've found something, and they're getting rid of it. Blaine doesn't even realize that his feet are moving, but somehow he's on the street, headed straight toward the gunshots, and Finn is right next to him.

He sees Santana first. She's on the ground, huddled into a little ball, shaking and mewling like a lost cat. Then he sees Kurt.

Kurt isn't defeated, or terrified, or huddled. He's standing up, hands held palms up. He's shaking, and he's pale, but he's trying to reason with the psychos, he's trying to. . .Blaine doesn't even know what he's trying to do, but he's being so brave, and he's standing so tall. He sees Kurt.

Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever.

Something in him snaps, and he's moving suddenly. He hears Kurt shout "No!" and he hears Finn grunting behind him. There's the sound of something heavy and metal hitting the ground, and Santana is sliding forward, but all that he can see is Kurt, and all he can think is Kurt, and he knows that there's a gun pointed at him – not at him, but at Kurt, and that's no okay, it's just not.

And then he has his arms around the other boy, and he's whispering into his neck when there's the sound of another gunshot. And Blaine doesn't want to die, he really, truly doesn't, but even less does he want Kurt to die, so he curls around the other boy and he prays.

But God doesn't listen to gay boys, because Kurt is whimpering, and he's become a heavy, heavy weight in Blaine's arms. He can't hold him up anymore, his legs have turned to jelly, and the two of them slide slowly, so slowly to the ground. He glances up for a moment, just to see. If this is the end, he doesn't want it to come with his eyes closed.

But all he sees is Finn, on his hands and knees. Santana is holding a gun in her hands, and she looks petrified. He doesn't see the men at all. Kurt is blinking at him.

"Why did you do that?" he asks.

"You move me, Kurt," Blaine says. It's stupid, and it doesn't make sense, but he doesn't know what else to say. Kurt's lips twitch a little, but the smile quickly becomes a frown. He pulls his hand up to his face. It's coated in blood, and Blaine's heart sinks a little further.

"Oh, God, _Blaine_," Kurt says.

_"It doesn't ever go away."_

_ Blaine nodded his head, mute. He hated that stupid room, with all the inspirational posters, and the stupid ferns. He hated the leather couch that the psychiatrist made him sit on. He hated that he had to come for the stupid thirty minute sessions every day, hated that it somehow made him different from everyone else at Dalton. He hated that Wes knew, and a part of him hated that nobody else did._

_ "You'll be struggling with this for the rest of your life."_

_ Blaine nodded again. It was a good day, so thoughts of suicide weren't even present in his head, but he knew what she meant. At night, and when there were thunderstorms, or when he was watching a particularly sappy romantic comedy. . .he knew it wasn't going to go away._

_ "I can give you medication, but it won't solve the issues at base," she said. "It will get better."  
Blaine didn't believe her. He was alone, and she would never, and could never understand that. Things didn't get better. Not for people like him."_

Kurt is forcing him onto his back, and he wants to protest, because Kurt is hurt. Instead he just widens his eyes a little.

"There was a moment," he says. "I saw you standing there. . .you're so brave, Kurt. . .there was a moment."

"Shut up, shut up," Kurt is saying. Why are there tears in his eyes? "Shut up you big moron."

"I knew," Blaine says. "I mean. . .I know. I mean. . ."

"Finn, grab some bandages," Kurt is saying. Blaine finally understands. Kurt can't feel pain. Kurt doesn't even _know_ he's hurt. He struggles up to his elbows, and wonders why it suddenly feels like his body is made of lead. Finn has already run off to some other corner of the store, but Santana is still standing there, still open-mouthed and pale with shock.

"Santana, please," Blaine says, but he has to pause for a moment to cough. His chest sounds thick and congested. He wonders if he's getting sick. "Kurt's been shot. He doesn't know because he can't feel anything. You have to help him."

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," Kurt says. Finn is back. Blaine blinks twice, because there seem to be two of him, and he's swaying a little bit, and isn't that kind of funny. "I'm not the one who's been shot, you idiot. You have."

Oh.

_Oh_.

He feels it, then, a hot, searing pain somewhere in his lower backsidefront. He can't remember anything hurting this badly, thought he supposes that getting his arm hacked off by a chainsaw was probably about equal. He wonders why he didn't feel it before.

Kurt's tongue is sticking out a little, and his eyes are focused. Blaine glances down, and is a little surprised to see the other boys hands pressing towels to his abdomen. Blaine thinks that maybe he should mention that his back was to the gunner.

But Kurt seems to know that, too and he's pulling Blaine up, and Finn's pressing something in behind him. One of Kurt's tears falls on Blaine's neck, and it burns a little bit.

There are black spots on the edge of his vision now, and Blaine knows this feeling. He's been here before, where he's at the edge of a tunnel, and even though he's not walking, he's getting further and further away from everyone and everything. He grabs Kurt's hand around the wrist, and that focuses everything for a minute.

"Kurt," he says, and his voice is raspy and breathless even to his own ears. "Listen to me. You have to know. You're adorable. And you're perfect. And. . .I'm glad, that even with the bombs, I got you out of this."

"Oh, hell no," Kurt whispers, and presses a little harder. Blaine grunts. "There is no way you're giving me a deathbed declaration of love. You are going to live, Blaine Anderson, and then you are going to tell me that you love me properly, with roses and champagne, and a fucking serenade. I am _not_ going to let you die."

"That sounds nice," Blaine says, but he's in the tunnel again, so he's not sure it will happen. He hears footsteps from Kurt's end of the tunnel, and wonders absently what's going on there.

"Guys. . ." Santana's voice is low and hazy, and he can barely even hear it. "Guys. . ."

"Hands in the air, please."

I can't, Blaine thinks. I only have one hand.

But then even that doesn't matter, because the tunnel's closed, and he's alone in the darkness.

**A/N: What? Cliffhanger? That **_**bitch**_**.**

**Oh, I do just love torturing Blaine so very, very much. Sigh.**

**COMING SOON: Sam names his group of heroes, as they head out to save the world. Puck and Rachel find an old friend. Kurt finds out some disturbing information. Santana debates coming clean to Finn. And Mike stops glowing! (gasp!)**


	14. Sam

13:57

**A/N: Back from hiatus! Hurray! Sorry that lasted so long. I'm going to try to be better, but I'll be honest, exams start next week and I haven't even started outlining. Hmmm. . . **

Sam is wearing a red shirt underneath his blue button-down. It's the most that Quinn will let him get away with, refusing to let him tie on a cape, or anything similar. Which he kind of understands. . .it's not like he has superpowers, or anything. But he still feels a little bit like a hero. . .leaving the bunker, and going forth into the world.

He frowns a little, trying to remember why, exactly, he is leaving the bunker. It will be nice to get into the sun, but. . .his hand is moving reflexively, a practiced motion, and a moment later he pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his back pocket. It's scrawled all over, different colors of ink clashing on the paper.

_You have no short term memory. There was a nuclear war. Some people are still trapped outside. You are going to save them. You do not have super powers. Don't touch Quinn's skin – use the wax lips. Jesse st. James is sketch. Have fun at McKinley!_

Hm. . .He frowns, and puts the paper back in his pants pockets. That's superweird. Then again, all of the best superheroes have something holding them back, some weakness. Kind of sucks that he can't remember stuff, though.

He leans back in the passenger seat of the van. He tries to glance at everyone else without them noticied – until he sees that the only people there are himself, Quinn, and some weird guy he doesn't know. So he settles for staring at Quinn, instead.

She looks beautiful, and his fingers itch to reach out and clutch her hand. The light, which is painting everything else orange and freaky-looking – kind of like an alternate Pandora, except instead of everything being vibrants greens and blues it's industrial and creepy. So really, nothing like Pandora at all. But the light, which is making everything disturbing and dead looking, is only making Quinn look more lovely, falling across her cheeks and accenting the highlights in her hair. Sam can remember when they dated, and he can remember when they broke up. He remembers kissing her at prom, and getting back together. He remembers riding with her in the bus. . .

He wonders what he did between that trip to Nationals and now that means he can't touch her at all.

The weird guy snaps his fingers, breaking into Sam's reverie. He crows triumphantly, throwing his head back so his weird, overgelled waves flop all over. "It happened again!" he said. "oh my god. . .every two hours. It's like clockwork."

"Shut up, Jesse," Quinn says, her tone hard and sharp. Sam winces at the sound of it. It's her Head Bitch in Charge voice, her Head Cheerleader voice, her I'm a Fabray, Now Suck It, Nerd voice. He's not such a fan of it. Jesse, however, doesn't seem to mind. He leans forward and extends a hand.

"I'm Jesse st. James," he says. "We're total besties."

"Really?" Sam asks. He remembers the paper in his back pocket, and doubts very much that they are friends at all. "Not sure I buy that. . ."

"Don't," Quinn says shortly, before turning and smiling at him, the kind of gentle smile that reminds him of daffodils and pink sunrises. She turns back around, focusing her eyes on the road. There aren't any other cars, Sam notes. Or rather, there are, but they're all parked at the side. None of them are moving. He doesn't see any other people, either. He's about to ask what's going on, when he remembers the note again.

Nuclear war. Which explains the orange tint to the sky, the way everything seems to be coated with a thin, fine grey dust. And they're going to McKinley, to find other survivors. He brightens a little at this. He wonders if this is anything like Terminator. . .if the computers have taken over, and they're the last remnants of human civilization. On the one hand, that would be amazing. On the other, it means that he's forgotten more massive chunks of his life than he'd initially believed. He glances at his hands. They look like his hands, not overly hairy, or spotted, or old. And Quinn looks normal. He concludes that they're not living in a post-Judgment Day at all.

As Quinn pulls into the parking lot, Sam is hit with a sudden. . .a sudden soething. It feels like a memory, and seems like a memory, but he can't quite figure out where it would fit into the timeline of his life.

The halls of McKinley are empty. There's dust on tables. The doors suddenly fly open, and men walk in, wearing standard army gear. Dust motes fly in the air around them.

As suddenly as it came, it's gone, leaving Sam reeling a little in his seat. He's sure that's never happened. He's almost 99.9% positives. But there's still the tattered remnants in his head of what can't possibly be a memory. He shakes a little, blond hair flying everywhere. Quinn and Jesse have climbed out of the van already, and are waiting for him. Quinn isn't tapping her foot, but Sam thinks that she probably wants to. She's never been very patient.

McKinley looks the same. And it looks completely different. Sam shrugs a little uncomfortably as they walk through, though neither Quinn nor Jesse seems to notice anything. She's walking forward, with a clear purpose, while Jesse is just smirking at every wall. Sam is. . .Sam is looking at the cracks.

Were there always splotches of paint missing? Where the lockers always twisted that little bit, so they didn't fit together snugly? Were there always those cracks in the wall, and was the linoleum floor always so faded? Did his footsteps always ring so hollowly down the hallways?

_The men spread out, moving with gestures. They move like an army_.

He shakes his head again. Too weird. . .Quinn and Jesse have almost reached the end of the hallway. Sam wants to yell out and tell them that there's no one else here. But he thinks. . .there is. Or there was. Or there will be.

He remembers something from one of his English classes. Fear is the best teacher you ever had. Then again, he thinks with a frown, it might be from a Batman movie. Hmm. . .

"What are you waiting for, Sam?" Quinn asks.

_They're holding guns. The men are holding guns, and they're lifting them, pointing at the pretty girl in front of them_.

Sam's breathing fast now, because the not-memories are coming fast, and Quinn's face is swimming in front of him. He hears Jesse's laughter, but it's far away and thick, like its bubbled under water. What does that even _mean_?

_Hey, Quinn._

_ Why aren't you sleeping?_

_ Too much to do. Thanks for helping. Can you do me another favor?_

_ Of course._

_ I know it's only around noon, but. . .does he glow?_

"Sam?"

Quinn's hazel eyes are filling up his vision now. Past her, her sees the stuccoed ceiling of McKinley. He takes a deep breath, and the world steadies around him. There's something hard beneath him. He splays his fingers. Out. The floor.

Why is he lying on the floor?

"You just fainted," Jesse sneers. "Like a little girl."

"Jessie, shut _up_," Quinn snaps, and the other boys listens for once. Quinn reaches forward, and her hand almost caresses his cheek. Almost, before a look of pain crossed her face and she pulls her hand back. Sam sighs. "Are you okay?"

"I guess," Sam says. His head hurts, and there are still black spots dancing around, but he thinks if he stays put he'll be okay.

_There's a quick rat-a-tat-tat as the guns fire. Chips fly from walls as bullets embed theselves, an inch deep, in concrete. She screams_.

"What's going on?" Jesse asks. "He looks like he's having a seizure."

"Sam?" Quinn asks, and he tries to focus in on her eyes he tries so hard. . .

_Radiation mutates genes, right? That's why it causes cancer so often. Mutations that can't stop. But what if it. . .what if it did something else to us?_

_ That's what I was thinking. Everyone's changed. Puck can't feel pain. Artie can feel his legs. Quinn. . ._

_ What about you?_

_ Nothing. Finn, neither. We didn't get sick, and it seems that we didn't. . .mutate, either. No X-Men for us._

That's it. Sam's eyes fly open, and he's staring now at the top of the truck. He sits up, a little shakily. Quinn's driving again, and Jesse's sitting beside her. Sam swings his legs over the front. X-Men and Rogue and the wax lips. . .the men he'd seen in his not-dreams. . .it's all coming together and all making sense, except. . .

Except that he can't remember why he's in a car, with Quinn and some random guy he doesn't know. Reflexively, his hand reaches to his back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. . .

**A/N: Yes, it was short, sorry. Gotta get back into the groove. The plot thickens. . .and next chappie we'll return to Blaine and everyone, I promise.**

**COMING SOON: Kurt reunites with some old friends. Santana lets go of a secret, and Finn is confused. (Surprise, surprise)**


	15. Hummel

13:57

**A/N: New episode tomorrow! Hurray! Until Ryan Murphy tears into the tattered shreds of what was once cannon again. Do you know how much I regret killing off Lauren, now that she's become awesome? Or the fact that there isn't more Brittana? Or Coach Beiste and Schuester being besties? Curse you, Ryan Murphy! CURSE YOU! **

Kurt could watch Blaine sleep for hours. He's certain of that fact. He'll never get tired of watching those thick black lashes splayed out against olive skin. It's not as though Blaine is a particularly graceful sleeper: he snores, and his mouth falls open, and a little stream of drool comes out one side of his mouth. His hands twitch a little, and every now and again his caterpillar eyebrows draw together, as though in worry. Dark curls frame his face, knotted up, and a little too frizzy, and complete out of control. Kurt's never seen anything more beautiful.

Until the other boy opens his eyes, and then Kurt remember what true beauty is. Hazel, green and brown.

"Hi," he says softly. Blaine coughs.

"Gwah?" he asks.

Kurt smiles, and pats the other boy on the shoulder. The soldiers have been telling him that Blaine would be fine, telling him that the bullet missed his lung, missed anything vital. He hadn't believed them, though, not until this moment.

"Kurt?" Blaine's second attempt at speech is a little better. When Kurt turns around, he sees his friend struggling to sit up, but between the bullet and the one arm, he's not doing too well. It's easy to put a hand on his chest and push him back down. "Don't," Blaine pleads, his eyes wide and wet. "Why are you moving around? You were shot!"

"I wasn't shot," Kurt says patiently, and it's only half a lie. Well, it's a total lie, he amends, since the men did shoot at him, and since the bullet, after taking a detour through Blaine's left side, had finally lodged in his own arm. Barely through the skin, and he hadn't felt a thing. But Blaine's eyes are searching his face, and Kurt knows that he's turning as red as a tomato, and red just isn't his color. He can't forget that moment – isn't sure if it was wonderful or horrible – when Blaine told him how wonderful he was.

"Right," Blaine says, and his face scruches up in the most adorable way possible. Kurt wants to lean over and kiss the other boy on the nose. He wants to so badly, but can't bear the thought of Blaine pulling away, or protesting, or, or

Courage.

"I remember. . .there were men. . .and they told us to put our hands up. . ." Blaine looks lost. Kurt can't hold in the giggle. He grabs the seven letter word, wraps himself up in it, snug and tight as a blanket, and leans forward to lay a butterfly kiss on Blaine's nose.

"Police," he says after, pleased to note that Blaine's cheeks have bloomed a dusty rose. "Real police, from New York. They've been looking for survivors, and trying to stop the looting."

"Police?" Blaine shakes his head, as though he's never heard of them before. "Real police? Like. . .people in charge?"

"I think so," Kurt says, although admittedly he doesn't know all that much. He'd. . .kind of thrown a bit of a fit when they'd come in, taking over, trying to whisk Blaine away. One of them claimed to be a medic, suggested that they not move him, while the others had tried to drag Kurt, Finn, and Santana away. They'd promised safety, food, and other people. Kurt had just wanted them to promise him that Blaine would live.

"They said that they're working with the army. I don't really know all that much. They're going to take Finn and Santana down to see the other survivors."

Blaine is nodding along to this, his eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle of the forehead. He's gasping a little, and Kurt's wondering if maybe he should call the medic.

"Are you in pain?" he asks. Blaine just shakes his head, but his eyes are still distant. Kurt reaches out, feeling incredibly bold, and pulls at one of those dark curls.

"You're going with them, right?" Blaine asks. Kurt's hand snaps back, and he stares at Blaine in disbelief.

"Of course not," he says. "I'm staying here next to you." At least, he thinks, until he gets his roses, champagne, and declaration of love. But Blaine is shaking his head vehemently, and Kurt is alarmed to see the sheen of sweat on the other boys' forehead. Maybe he's pushing too hard, maybe he should be back asleep. Kurt's pretty sure that he can find some chicken broth and whip up a soup. . .

"No," Blaine is shaking his head, and trying to sit up, and hoo no, Kurt _knows_ that's not a good idea. "Kurt. . .David and Wes. . .Thad. . ."

Oh. Oh.

It hits like a two ton truck. Blaine's still looking for his friends, still worried about his friends. Kurt's not entirely sure how he feels about that. Because he's worried too, of course he is. . .but. . .but he kind of wishes that Blaine's first thought, after waking up from a near death experience, wasn't for his friends.

Okay, admittedly, first he'd tried ot get Kurt to lie down. But that was ridiculous, so it doesn't count.

"Finn will look for them," he tries to reassure Blaine, but he knows it doesn't work. Because Finn doesn't know the Warblers, won't recognize them if they aren't in Dalton attire. And he won't care. Like like Kurt does (_should_) and not like Blaine.

Still. He doesn't want to go. He wants to sit right here, and he wants Blaine to tell him he's perfect, and he wants them to kiss again. Why does the world never give him what he wants?

He doesn't notice that Blaine is tugging on his arm until he's suddenly thrown off balance, collapsing on the bed. He must jostle Blaine as he falls, for the other boy gives a short, strangled gasp, and then spends a moment trying to collect his breath. Even as something in Kurt's stomach falls apart, he thinks a vindictive "serves you right."

"Please," Blaine finally manages to get out. "Kurt, please. . ."

Oh, damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Blaine's pulled out the puppydog eyes, and Kurt's turned to pudding. Again. He's really got to work on his resolve, because he absolutely does not want to leave. So he tries his own secret move, one that's worked on his dad for years, and has started working on Carole and, he thinks, might even be successful on Finn.

He bites his lip and glances at the ground. "I'm just. . .I'm so worried about you."

"Hey."

There's something under his chin, forcing it up until his eyes finally meet hazel ones. Blaine's voice is a little higher than usual, the way it gets when he's trying to be comforting and understanding. "I'll be fine," he says, with a little chuckle. "I'll be right here when you get back."

"But what if. . ." Kurt tries a little lip tremble. It seems to work. "What if the pain gets too bad?"

Wrong move, it turns out, as Blaine releases his chin, and his hand darts back to his pocket, pulling out a familiar orange container. "Then I'll have one of these," he says. "I'll just pop one and be right as rain. You don't have to worry about me, Kurt."

"But. . ." He tries to think of something else to add, another excuse to prolong his leaving, but nothing is coming to him, and Blaine is still staring at him with those big green eyes. "All right," He says, finally, but when he tries to stand to move, he finds that he can't. He looks down to see Blaine's hand tightly fisted in his blazer.

"I meant what I said," Blaine says, a little smirk on his lips. "I really care about you, Kurt. And maybe. . .maybe when you come back, I'll have a special surprise waiting for you."

Oh. Well. That makes things a little better.

Kurt's walking on cloud nine when he finally gets down to the lobby of the hotel that they're currently stationed at. Santana is chatting with the younger, black police officer, while Finn is throwing a ball at the wall. As Kurt watches, he throws it a little to hard, and it bounces back with clearly unanticipated force, whacking his stepbrother in the fact. Kurt can't help it. He laughs.

"Hey," Santana says, on her feet in one fluid movement. "The hobbit's okay? He woke up."

"He seems all right," Kurt says. "Tired and in pain but. . .all right."

"Cool," Finn says, nodding his head and putting the ball back in his pocket. "Good. Cool. Yeah. So. . ."

It doesn't take long before they're following two of the officers down the street. The medic stayed with Blaine, to check over his stitches. She doesn't want him moving for another day or two.

Kurt can't keep from staring at the buildings as they walk by. He can't believe that they're actually here. Just two months ago, he'd been so excited to come to New York. . .he'd had his bags packed for months, and he'd jokingly told Blaine (and all the Warblers) that they'd be lucky to get him to come back to Ohio after Nationals.

Two months ago.

It's hard to believe that anyone would want to travel to this city now. Everything is covered in grey. Kurt feels like he's walking through a horrible, colorblind world. Oh, Gaga, is this how fashion-blind people feel all the time? Like everything just looks the same, and it's not worth the effort. . .he can't stand it.

Then, all of a sudden, like a phoenix rising from the flame (a little dramatic, whatever, he's earned it) he sees it. Grand Central Station and somehow, when the towering skyscrapers, emblematic of progress and success have become smoking ruins, the French beax architecture remains. Coated in grey, and Kurt highly doubts that the sun will stream in through the windows like the photos he's studied for hours, but. . .it's still there, virtually untouched.

"Come on," the officer Santana had been flirting with says gruffly, tugging them forward. Kurt can't understand why they're going in Grand Central. . .it's hardly protected from radiation, or looters or. . .but then he sees that they're not, that they're going off to the side, just the tiniest bit. To the subway.

Oh. That makes sense.

"Hey," Finn whispers, so close to his ear that he jumps a little. "Did you know that mole people live down here?"

Kurt arches an eyebrow. "What on earth are you talking about, Finn?"

"No, seriously," his stepbrother says. "Rachel was telling me about them. Crazy people that don't like the sun or, like, crowds or something. They live in the subway."

"They live underground?" Santana pipes in, not even bothering to whisper. "Like hobbits?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, because he already _knows_ where this is going, and it's too simple, especially for Santana, who has practically patented her own brand of cruel. Finn, however, doesn't know what a hobbit is, and by the time Santana's explained it, the joke is lost.

Kurt had assumed that they would walk down some stairs and be greeted by throngs of cheering people, but they're not. There's not welcome wagon at all. They simply turn left, crawl down a ladder, and begin walking on the tracks.

It's beyond eerie, and it smells disgusting. Kurt knows his nose is wrinkling up, and he prays it doesn't leave a permanent mark. Rats scurry away as they walk. Figures that in a post-apocalyptic world, the rats would be doing fine.

"Where are we going?" Santana asks, carefully balancing along one of the rails, careful not to let her feet touch one of the puddles of. . .of _sludge_ that pattern the ground.

"In a bit deeper," the officer says. "We wanted to get as far from the radiation as possible."

Which makes sense, Kurt has to admit, but it's still disgusting. He's glad that he's just wearing a pair of jeans and converses – Finn, of all people, had convinced him to change out of his designer wear for the day. At least he doesn't' have to worry about stains. These trashy ripoffs will be going straight in the trash, no questions asked.

He can hear something now, a kind of crashing, rumbling noise. Finn's face has broken into a smile, and he's walking quicker, while Santana raises her hand to rub at her eyes.

"You okay?" Kurt asks. She nods.

"Yeah, it's just. . .there's a _lot_ of color up ahead."

He doesn't know exactly what she's talking about, but then, Santana's always been a little strange. She's squinting now, which is bizarre since they're underground and there's very little light. But then they turn a corner and Kurt freezes.

Oh. That's a lot of people.

The entire platform is crowded with people. People lying down, sleeping, sitting on benches, talking, and one man is doing pushups to the side. Kurt closes his eyes and opens them again. He can't remember the last time he'd seen so many people.

Before the bombs. Before everything changed.

Finn is laughing helplessly beside him, and even Santana has a broad smile on her face. The officers just seem tired. Kurt shakes his head. They're on a mission. They can't get distracted, they can't just. . .

"This way," Finn says. "They're right over here."

There's no way that Finn can know that. There's no way Finn should even recognize the Warblers. And yet. . .and yet, as the taller boy is towing him through the crowds, and as Santana hurries afraid them, shouting out expletives, he sees a flash of navy and red.

No. It's impossible.

It's true. Thad is actually still wearing the Dalton blazer.

Kurt's surprised that his face isn't splitting apart, he's smiling so wide. Finn is hopping up and down beside him like a pleased puppy, and Santana skids to a halt beside him. He's done it (well, admittedly, Finn's done it, but Kurt is more than happy to take credit).

"Hey, Thad," Kurt says, breathless from smiling. "Sorry I'm late. We got stuck in –umph!"

He doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence, however, as the other boy lunges forward and catches him in a giant hug. Behind him, he can hear the other Warblers getting to their feet, gathering around. As he pulls back from Thad, his smile falters a little. They're not all there. Which isn't saying anything. . .maybe some of them went to get food, or to take a nap. . .

But it's hard to imagine the Warblers ever splitting up. So he cranes his neck. There's Wes, unbelievably still holding a gavel in his hand. And Luke, grinning as goofily as ever. . .but no matter how hard Kurt looks, he doesn't see Jeff, or Nick, or David, or. . .

That's when he notices that they're doing the same thing. After a pat on the back to Kurt, they're scanning behind him, looking for someone else, trying to keep track of who's missing.

"Hey," Wes says, coming to stand beside him. "I'm really glad to see you're okay."

"Thanks," Kurt says, a bit of a shy smile on his face. He and Wes still aren't friends, not exactly, though they share a mutual respect. Kurt appreciates that Wes's eyes aren't scanning the crowd, looking for someone else.

"We didn't think. . .I mean, we just assumed. . ." Wes swallows thickly, and blinks his eyes. Kurt understands. He's trying hard to keep back the tears himself.

"Where is David?" Kurt asks. He wants to inquire about the other boys, too, but the way that Wes' eyes jerk to the ground, the way nobody will look at him. . .Kurt knows the answer. His heart sinks a little.

"Oh," he says.

"Yeah," Wes half-whispers. "It wasn't the bomb. . .we were outside the radius, but then everyone just got sick, and. . ."

"I know." This time it's Kurt who reaches out and engulfs the other boy in a hug. Over his shoulder, he can see Finn awkwardly patting Luke on the back, as the massive Warbler sobs into his shoulder. Santana is bawling into Thad's blazer. Everyone's grabbed onto someone. A reminder that they're all still alive.

"Blaine's going to be so glad to see you all," Kurt says, and for some reason, that freezes everyone. He shifts a little uncomfortably as half a dozen Warblers are suddenly staring at him. It's Thad who finally clears his throat and speaks.

"Blaine. . .Blaine's still alive?" he asks. Kurt raises an eyebrow.

"Yes," he says. "Of course he is. He's the one who wanted to come find you."

They're all glancing at one another now, the behavior so strange that even Finn seems to notice it.

"Wow," Wes whispers. "That's. . .wow. . ."

Suddenly there's a cacophony of sound, as the Warblers all rejoice, clapping one another on the back. Luke lunges forward and catches Kurt up in a hug, spinning him around. Finn is back to smiling giddily, but something is still bothering Kurt. He glances at Santana. She's biting her lip, and glaring at Wes.

"Wait, wait," Kurt pushes himself free. "Why are you so surprised that Blaine's still alive?"

"Well we just. . ." Wes sighs. "There was the bomb, obviously. And then, we just assumed that even if he survived that. . ."

Nobody wants to talk. Kurt's staring at them, because he _knows_ that there's something going on, but he just can't quite put his finger on it.

"You were worried that he'd kill himself," Santana says. Kurt gasps, turns around, and slaps her.

"That's a horrible thing to say!"

Santana doesn't do anything in return, which is a little unnerving. She doesn't slap him, or bitch him out, or stomp on him with a high heel. She just stares at him, her eyes black in the dim, subway lighting.

"Yeah," Wes finally says. "That's what we thought."

Kurt whirls around at that. "You're supposed to be his friend!" he gasps. "Why would you think he would ever do something like that!"

"He has before," Santana says lowly. "I saw the scars."

Wes, who had been nodding along, freezes at her last words. "Scars?" he asks. "Those were from before. Blaine ODed, he. . ."

Oh, God. Kurt tastes blood, suddenly, and realizes he must have bitten through his lip. Little pieces are falling into place, now. The way he'd always worn his blazer, and never pushed his sleeves up. . .the way all of the cabinets had been look at his parents' house. . .the way he was so eager to go back where there was radiation, how he'd come to him, crying, the other night, how he was always trying to. . .

"He has pills," Kurt says lowly, the words coming out before he can stop them. He doesn't want to think this of Blaine, doesn't want to believe that the boy he loves, the boy he admires is that weak. But the words are out, and Wes is looking at him with hooded eyes. "He stole them from his house. He has them now."

And then Wes is grabbing his hand and pulling him, and Santana is at his heels, and Finn is wondering what's going on.

Even though the pieces fit, Kurt still doesn't have a complete puzzle. He _knows_ Blaine, and he knows the other boy isn't going to. . .isn't going to do that. He'd promised a surprise, with a smile. But as much as Kurt doesn't want to believe it, as much as he can't, there's still a sick little feeling in his stomach, and his brain is asking him how well he knows his

**A/N: Yay for the return of the Warblers! Look forward to an upcoming flashback chappie where we discover what they've gotten up to, how they survived, etc. etc. I'm just happy to get my darlings Wes and Thad back. Sorry, David. Someone had to bite the bullet.**

**COMING SOON: Rachel and Puck search for Shelby, Sam discovers that sometimes being a superhero sucks, Sue finds herself battling the man, and Karofsky gets a chapter! (Yay!)**


	16. Berry

13:57

**A/N: Blech. So unhappy with this chapter. My apologies, it feels very, very off, but I just can't seem to get it right. So. . .accept it. **

**Yay! So happy that someone else loves Blaintana! Maybe my crack!ship will one day become a reality. It is, after all, Glee. . .anything is possible. Also, I have two new favorite reviews EVER**

"**Maybe Blaine's power is the power of cliffhangers. Or fangirls. Both seem to correlate directly with him."**

**And. . ."I figured out Finn's power. HE IS A HUFFLEPUFF."**

**One of you is right. One. . .not so much.**

Maybe she shouldn't go inside. Maybe she should stay in the car with Mr. Schuester. That's what a good student would do. After all he still isn't feeling well, still raving a little, and sweating. Yes, that's what she'll do. She'll let Noah head in, see what the situation is, and then determine a plan of action, after tending for her ailing teacher.

Rachel shifts awkwardly to her other foot, and bites her bottom lip. On the other hand. . .on the other hand, Mr. Schuester really doesn't smell good at all, and it can't be hygienic to be in the car with him. She supposes that she could put down the windows, and perhaps a bit of breeze would be sufficient to eradicate the stench coming off the man, despite the bath that she'd forced him into.

But then again. . .

Then again, Noah is standing on the steps to the small house, staring up at it. He's not acting at all like the Noah of McKinley, all anger and bravado filling in for the deep, poetic soul that she knows he harbors deep inside. He looks naked, standing on those steps, his hands thrust into his pocket and his eyes trained on the ground.

Rachel shifts to the other foot.

It's just. . .she doesn't know if she can handle walking in that door. She can't walk in that door without remembering. . .and she can't think about. . .and she can't, just can't. . .

"Hey."

Noah's standing in front of her, one finger on her chin, forcing her to look at him. She's still trembling, but there's something comforting in his harsh features. She breathes in a little deeper and calms herself.

"You don't have to go in," he says. "you can just chill out here, that's cool. I'll go check and then. . .yeah. It's cool."

"No," Rachel says, almost surprised as the words come out of her mouth. "No, I can do this. Let's do this."

She starts walking up the steps immediately, actually pasing by Noah. It's her hand that settles on the doorknob, her strength that pushes the door open. Her eyes are closed, but it is her feet that cross the threshold first. Noah pushes by her a moment later.

She's ready for it, that smell that makes her want to hurl, but instead the house smells like jasmine and vanilla. She pauses for a moment, opens her eyes.

There's nothing here. A couch, a chandelier. It looks like a Broadway set, like somebody's designed a house out of cardboard, paint, and tack. Rachel breathes out. It's a perfectly set stage, with all the furniture arranged toward the stage.

"Hey!" Noah yells, his voice ringing in the stillness. "Is anyone home? Hello?"

He begins moving forward, into the kitchen. Rachel is ready to follow him when she hears it. Thin, reedy, and weak, from up the stairs – a baby crying.

"Noah," she tries to say, but her voice catches in her throat. She has better success the second time. "Noah, do you hear that?"

He turns around, green eyes wide and almost panicked. He squares his shoulders back, the way he always does when he's trying to be brave, and nearly runs her over as he heads to the stairs. She follows behind at a more sedate pace. The baby doesn't stop crying. Why doesn't somebody stop the baby's crying?

She stops at the top of the stairs. Noah has gone into the door to the right, the door that's open, with just a hint of light spilling into the hallway. He's gone in, to find his baby, and to hold her, and to be with his family. She should be there with him, but somehow she can't find the strength to move her feet.

She never had a brother or sister. She doesn't know what to do with babies.

A tiny part of her thinks that it isn't fair. Noah has his sister, still. He has Quinn, and he has Santana, if he wants her. What does Rachel Berry have? Her dads are dead, she's lost her voice, and her boyfriend went to New York without her. She has nothing.

"Rachel?"

She still has her pride, she reminds herself firmly. She still has all of those star qualities that she's been working on since she was three years old. She's still Rachel Berry. So she puts one foot in front of the other, and forces herself to walk in the room.

It's all yellow, which shouldn't surprise her. Shelby had been a very forward-thinking woman. . .no gender specific colors for her baby. It's yellow, but with breezy white curtains over the window, and a sweet little bassinet. There are clouds painted on the ceiling, so it looks like the sky is contained in the yellow sun of the walls. She wishes her mom had painted a baby room for her.

Noah is standing in the middle of the room, his face a confused tumble of emotions. His eyes are still wide, but wet now, and his lips are trembling. She's seen him like this so rarely. . .back at Regionals, when Kurt and Blaine had sung that duet, and it had seemed like there was a spark between them. At their fundraiser, when Mercedes had belted out the Aretha ballad. And now, holding a baby in his arms, staring down at her with awe.

"She has Quinn's eyes," he says softly, and Rachel thinks that he sounds a little bit like her rabbi when he prays. She nods, swallows past the lump that's forming in her throat, and goes to stand beside him, to look down at the baby.

She'd never seen Beth. . .she'd stayed at the theater when everyone else had gone to the hospital. She'd never seen her, but she is still certain that there was something different about this baby. Her skin is unnaturally pale, no pink hue to her cheeks at all, and the tufts of hair that gently curl around her temple were so blond they are almost white. Noah was right, though. . .those gold/green eyes are identical to Quinn's.

There's a mumbling noise from near the window, and Rachel and Noah turn at once to face it. The rocking chair, nudged to be beneath the light of the window, has a dark shape on it. Rachel's reminded of horrible horror movies as the shape rustles and moves. A hood falls backwards onto thin shoulders, and a too-thin, too-pale face bears out at them. Her mouth falls open, because she's looking at herself, cast in a horrible Lifetime movie where she gets cancer and her hair falls out.

The baby is crying and someone is screaming.

Noah is pulling her close.

The zombie is opening its mouth.

Rachel is running.

She doesn't stop until she's outside, because it's not far. She falls to her knees, and buries her finger in bristling, dead brown grass. She's heaving, puking, vomiting. This hasn't happened to her since she was in second grade and came down with the flu. She's still retching, minutes later, but nothing's coming out any longer. She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, and stares at the mess in front of her.

What is she doing here?

Behind her a door opens, and steps clod toward her. One pair of steps, but she hears two different bodies breathing, one high and light, the other low and heavy.

"Wow, Berry, that's a _load_."

Noah's typical insensitivity is almost enough to send her into hysterics again. But she's a consummate actress, and now that there's an audience again, she has to get herself together. She's shaking, but she gets to her feet.

Noah is still holding the baby, and he's supporting it all wrong, though she supposes it's all right, because it's a year old and should be able to support its own head.

Did they leave Mr. Schuester in the car? That probably wasn't the nicest move. . .she hopes that they put the window down.

Her nose itches. She wonders if there's pollen in the air, if maybe she's coming down with allergies.

"She's gone," Noah says, and he reaches out to touch her shoulder. She jerks away, because this has to be the worst day of her life. And, although she appreciates that Noah has some talent, and he's certainly not bad-looking, he's not the one that she wants with her right now.

She's supposed to be home from Nationals, with a trophy and a truckload of respect.

"Hey," Noah says. "I know it sucks, like a lot. But, you know, you've still got Glee. You've got me."

His arms are around her, and there's sticky baby cheek smushed against her own cheek, and Rachel just _loses_ it. She knows that her face gets ugly when she cries, that her lips pull down, and her eyes scrunch up, and her nose looks bigger than usual. She knows that, but she can't help it.

"I don't want you," she mumbles, and she raises one fist to pound against Noah's chest.

"I want Finn. I just want Finn."

**A/N: I was planning on the next chapter being the Warbler flashback, but this one was so ANGSTY that I need some fluff instead. So. . .following the coming chapter, I'm torn between the Karofsky chappie and the Warbler chappie. . .hmm, decisions, decisions.**

**COMING SOON: Kurt faces his worst nightmare, Finn discovers Santana's evil bitch streak, there be Warbler angst, and Karofsky witness a poignant and tragic moment. Also, Jesse st. James continues to confound with his bisexuality, Tina discovers her powers, and Mike stops glowing!**


	17. Hudson

13:57

**A/N: As always, thanks for all of the wonderful reviews! Over a 100 now! Wow! Also, impressed at how many of you are sticking through, with all of the weird POV changes and everything. Blaine does, indeed, have a mutation, but there's no way anybody can guess it yet. I twill become evident in. . .three chapters, I think? Wow. . .almost done with the story! Yay!**

Finn's kind of used to being confused, which is a strange sentence in itself. Like. . .can you be used to being confused? Isn't that just confusing in itself? If he's in a constant state of confusement, doesn't that mean that things can't get any more confusing?

Now he's just bewildered.

As weird as that train of thought was, he's even more messed up about why they're running out of the train sewers. One minute everyone is hugging one another, which is kind of strange, because he's not used to hugging guys (even though he's totally down with the rainbow, really!), and the next minute Kurt is holding some Asian guys hand and they're all running back the way they came.

The police officers are yelling at them, saying that they have to come back, but Kurt looks like he's on a mission (it's seriously terrifying – he has the same look in his eyes that he got when it was Black Friday and Finn refused to go to the store). Santana's yelling something in Spanish. He's pretty sure that it isn't anything Mr. Schue would normally teach them.

He hopes Mr. Schue is doing okay. There's a tight feeling in his chest when he thinks about his choir director. It's not like Rachel and Puck are the best at taking care of people. And, for that matter, he isn't really sure why they both wanted to stay. He totally trusts them both, now. Rachel loves him, and he's sure she wouldn't cheat on him with Puck. Not again. . .

And that is a train of thought that he definitely doesn't want to follow, especially when they're running along train tracks.

"Where are we going? He asks.

"I thought you knew!" one of the Swallows says.

"Nope," Finn says, and tries another avenue. "Santana, where are we going?"

"We're going to make sure your brother's boyfriend doesn't try to off himself," she says.

Finn has to pause and think about that for a moment. He's pretty sure that she's talking about Blaine, but he's a little hurt that neither boy _told_ him they were going out. Kurt's his brother, and Blaine's one of his best dude friends. But wait a minute. . .off himself? Why would Blaine try to. . .

He stops thinking about it, because it's just making his head hurt. Since they're still running, his legs kind of hurt, too, and he doesn't need a migraine on top of that. Instead he sticks his hand out to the dark-haired kid he'd been talking to earlier.

"I'm Finn," he says. The kid just stares at his hand for a moment, before finally taking it.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says, though his voice is a little uncertain and wavering. "My name is Thad." The way he says it is kind of lilting, and his voice goes up near the end.

Finn assumes he's shy. Or confused as well.

They come out of the tunnel, around this time, and Finn blinks in the light. It's not too bad, since all of the dust is covering up the sun. He's not a huge fan of the new, orangish tone that the world has taken on, but he's happy that at least he's not going blind. That would suck.

Kurt hasn't stopped running yet, although he's dropped the Asian's hand. Santana's caught up with him now, and she looks _pissed_.

Between Kurt's shopping face and Santana's pissed face, Finn is very, very glad that he's not Blaine.

He almost runs into his stepbrother's back when they reach the hotel. Kurt's stopped so abruptly, and Finn admittedly hadn't been paying that much attention, because if he craned his neck enough he could see where the tops of the buildings disappeared into the clouds which was _so cool_ and he'd been thinking that maybe the guy who wrote Jack and the Beanstalk had been to New York and seen the buildings and thought about climbing them, and then that made him think about King Kong climbing the Empire State Building which made him think about how weird the new version with Jack Black was which made him think about School of Rock which made him think about Glee which made him think about Mr. Schuester which made him think about Rachel which

Right. So that's why he almost fell over Kurt when he stopped. Also, Kurt is kind of short.

But right now he's pale, like a sheet or a piece of paper, and he has one hand kind of fluttering over his chest. He kind of looks like he's about to vomit, and Finn considers pointing him toward the potted plant. Santana, on the other hand, has turned an even darker shade than usual. They've both staring in the same direction, and Finn tries to figure out what their gazes are fixed to.

The only thing he sees is a couch, and Blaine lying on it, obviously asleep. One of his arms is on his chest, and the other has fallen off, is hanging loosely against the floor. It's really not all that interesting, and he doen't know why they both look so freaked out.

"No," Kurt whispers, and even though it's low and under his breath, it's also really, really dramatic. Santana starts to move forward, but Kurt flings out an arm, stopping her. "Don't you dare," He hisses, and Santana backs off, her hands raised non-threateningly. She's still staring at Blaine, though.

"What's going on?" Finn asks, but neither of them will answer. Thad and all the other Larks are also silent. Finn tries to walk forward, but Kurt beats him, practically sprinting to throw himself over Blaine's body.

"Why?" Kurt practically screams. "I'm too late."

Finn thinks it kind of looks like one of those really, really bad black and white movies that Rachel's always trying to get him to watch. The ones where everyone is over-dramatic, and wailing, and he just wishes someone with a gun would walk in and finish them all off. The police nurse walks in, the one who had stayed behind, and she obviously agrees with Finn, because she puts a hand on Kurt's shoulder and pulls him off.

"That's enough of that," she says, and she sounds kind of pissed. "What are you even doing here? I thought Brent and Rob were taking you to meet the others."

At that, the Warblers all walk forward, looking a bit ashamed. The police nurse lady rolls her eyes. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," she says, and wanders off to talk into her walkie talkie. Kurt, meanwhile, has stuck his hands in Blaine's pants, and Finn's feeling a little uncomfortable.

"Uh. . .Kurt. . ." he mutters. He knows that he has to be kind of careful, because Kurt can get super pissy about things like this, and tends to start yelling about homophobia. Still. "Maybe that should wait for when you guys are alone. And, uh. . .you know. . .Blaine's conscious."

Kurt ignores him, which is no surprise. Kurt is _always_ ignoring him. He pulls something out of Blaine's pants, though, and Finn has to close his eyes. "Ah-ha!" Kurt yells triumphantly. "Look!" Finn decides to open his eyes then, because Kurt's kind of weird, but probably not so weird that he would want everyone to see his boyfriend's junk. Instead, he's waving a little orange bottle around in the air.

"So weird. . ." Santana mumbles, and she walks over. She hovers her hand over Blaine's forehead. "He's still green. . ."

Finn raises one eyebrow. Blaine doesn't look green to him. He sighs and turns to Thad. "Do you have any idea what's going on?"

Thad totally knows what's going on. Finn can tell. Thad totally doesn't tell him.

Kurt hurls the little orange container across the room, until it hits the wall and falls to the ground with a plop. The police nurse pokes her head back in.

"Would you be quiet?" she hisses. "He's trying to sleep. God knows he could use it."

"You let him take those?" Kurt asks shrilly, pointing at the little pills that have scattered across the floor. "You're supposed to be medical personnel! You should know better!"

The Asian boy, meanwhile, has wandered over the room. "That's an awful lot of pills left," he says slowly. Kurt ignores him (no surprise) and kneels down between Blaine again. He clutches Blaine's hand in his own, and lowers his head to the other boy's chest, muttering something so low that Finn can't hear it. The Asian has picked up the orange container, and is reading the label with interest, a smile widening on his face. Santana is still frowning down at Blaine. She leans down, and flicks at his nose with her finger.

She's done that to Finn before. It hurts.

Sure enough, it's enough to startle Blaine awake. He almost jumps up, before giving a small yelp. He wrenches his hand free of Kurt, and clutches his side. He doesn't look so good now, Finn notices. Kind of pale and sweaty. Kurt just stares at him.

It's a weird table (Finn thinks that's the word. . .Rachel tried to teach him. . .it meant like a scene, or a picture. It's one of his SAT word of the day words, and he's been trying to use them. Although. . .he's been stuck on table for a month now, since he hasn't been home to flip the calendar page. And, realistically, he probably doesn't have to study for the SATs anymore, which is a bit of a relief). All of the Robins are just standing there, staring silently, except the Asian, who is smiling. Santana still has her finger slightly crooked, and Blaine is panting. Kurt is. . .is. . .

Kurt's the one who breaks the table. His face contorts in a terrifying expression that's half-scared and half-sad and half-pissed, and then his hand pulls back, and a second later there's a loud _crack_! in the room as he slaps Blaine.

Santana cackles.

"Ow!" Blaine yelps. "What the hell was that for?"

In the next moment, Kurt has thrown himself forward, wrapping himself around Blaine, muttering "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, are you okay?" Blaine seems a little bewildered. Over Kurt's shoulder he seems to notice the Cardinals for the first time. He blinks twice, and shakes his head, like he doesn't believe what he's seeing.

"Th-Thad?" he asks. "Luke?"

And then pandemarium breaks out (that's another SAT word) as all of the boys crowd around Blaine.

"You thought you were too cool to come see us, had to send your boyfriend, huh?"

"Oh my gosh, did you get shot? That's so badass!"

"My good sir, what a relief it is to see you well!"

"Blaine, let me just say, I am _loving_ the new hair!"

And then the Asian, who has pocketed the yellow container, says "Hey, Blaine. Glad to see you're still alive."

Everyone's crying and hugging again, and Finn still doesn't get what's going on. What he does understand is Santana grabbing his hand and muttering something about food. That's a concept that Blaine can totally understand, and he follows her across the street to the convenience store.

They pause for a moment, stepping on shattered glass. There's still a brown smudge over by the Little Debbie's, where Kurt and Blaine had been. Santana seems nervous, but she walks in anyway, grabbing some different chips. Finn goes to get the sodas.

"I'm really sorry," Santana says.

"About what?"

"About last night. I shouldn't have come on to you. I know you're with Rachel, and it's not like I want to be with you anyway. I mean, you have weird nipples, and you're pretty stupid, and your body is nothing to write home about. I was just lonely."

"Um. . .okay," Finn says, and he really has no idea what she's talking about. Because she's making it sound like they'd hooked up, and Finn is pretty sure he's never going to let that happen again.

Until he remembers dark hair, and warm lips, and. . .

One of the bottles of Mountain Dew falls to the ground. The top spins off, and angry, fizzing liquid spills out.

Oh, no. Oh, this is not good. Because now that he thinks back on it, that hair had smelled like roses, instead of like strawberries, and nails had raked down his back when Rachel was always so careful to keep hers trimmed. And the lips on his had been hungry and angry, not shy and sweet.

Finn hates cheaters. He _hates_ them.

What is he supposed to do?

"Frankenteen?" Santana asks. "You okay there?"

"Don't talk to me," he says, because it's all he can think to say. He turns and walks back to the hotel. She follows, still yapping at him, but he's not listening.

How is he supposed to explain this to Rachel? She'd freaked the last time he'd hooked up with Santana, and they hadn't even been dating back. He's in the wrong, he knows he is but. . .but it's not his fault. This just sucks.

Maybe if he doesn't think about it, it will go away. It's possible, right?

Everyone's still in the hotel, still huddled around the couch, and Finn finds himself naturally gravitating over there. If he stands with other people – if he's around other dudes – he won't have time to think, and if he doesn't think he can pretend that he didn't totally betray Rachel, even if it was by accident, and even if he was half-asleep. But it's equally awkward when he pushes his way in, beside the huge, blonde Warbler and Thad. Kurt is curled up, practically on _top_ of Blaine, and he has one of the other boy's hands tightly clasped between his own.

"If you ever try to kill yourself again, I will end you," Kurt says, lowly. Blaine chuckles a little, and closes his eyes.

"It doesn't ever go away," he whispers. "You can't ever make me better."

"I can try," Kurt says fiercely.

Finn wanders away, because this moment is just too poynant (he totally would have gotten at least a 1200 on the SATs). But then he pauses, because he doesn't really know where to go. He feels completely and totally lost.

He's supposed to be the hero, right? Weren't he and Blaine on a rescue mission? He suddenly doesn't feel much like a leader, or a hero, or like he's rescued much of anyone.

Right now he just wishes he were back in Ohio, with Rachel and his mom. Heck, even doing Coach Sylvester's calisthenics isn't sounding all that awful. Santana's still looking at him with hooded, snake eyes, so he wanders over to where a tall kid with really long bangs is standing alongside a shorter dark-haired guy.

"So. . ." he says, trying to make conversation. "Are you two dating?"

They exchange a confused look. "You. . .do know that Dalton isn't a gay school, right?"

"It's not?" Finn is honestly surprised. The blond one giggles.

"I'm Nick," the other one says. "And this is Jeff."

"I'm Finn."

They just kind of stand there for a moment, and it's horribly awkward. Finn finds his thoughts drifting again (he kind of misses ice cream. . .is that too random?)

It's the police medic, surprisingly, who brings a simblance of normalcy back. "This just in, kiddos," she says with a wry twist to her mouth. "Pack your bags. We're headed to Washington, D.C."

**A/N: There! Klaine angst pretty much over. Phew. Of course, now there is Finchel angst, and Santana angst and. . .sigh. I think I'm going to cut the Warbler recap, actually. . .it doesn't really add to the story, it was kind of just something I wanted to do. But really. . .too random. My apologies to anyone looking forward to it.**

**COMING SOON: Karofsky witnesses a poignant and tragic moment, Jesse st. James continues to confound us with his bisexuality, Tina discovers her powers, and Mike stops glowing! **


	18. Dave

13:57

**w.A/N: Oh, so many eagle-eyed readers. Yes, you are absolutely right, I accidentally mentioned that Blaine had two arms in the last chapter. My mistake. He does, in fact, only have one arm. Glad so many of you are enjoying the story – a little disturbed by those of you who wished Blaine had died. Also. . .somebody figured out Blaine's mutation. Sort of. Which is also shocking. Hmmm.**

There's something big going down, and Dave can't decide if he wants to get involved, or not. He's not really a big picture kind of guy. . .he's more of a 'take each day as it comes' type. Always has been, and he figures it's been working out okay for him. Back at McKinley, before the bombs, he'd still been on the inside, with very little effort. Being bigger than most guys made it easy. And then when Finn and Homo Explosion had won the football championship for them, it had been even easier.

Of course, things have changed since the bomb. There isn't really a popular group anymore. The whole football team is still together, and all the Cheerios. There are those guys from California, but they kind of just keep to themselves.

And then there's the Glee Club.

Here's the thing about Glee Club. . .at first, Dave had thought they were gay. Like, really, really gay. He'd always imagined their practices as being a bunch of guys in sequined tutus dancing around and singing about their feelings. He didn't understand when Hudson and Chang wanted to join. . .and he _really_ didn't get it when Puck joined. Because if anybody in the school was straight, it was Puck.

So he'd had to step back for a while, reevaluate. Maybe Glee wasn't so gay, after all. And then Hummel came and taught them a fairy dance, but the fairy dance _did_ win them a game, so maybe gay wasn't so bad.

That was when Dave had really started having problems.

Because if gay wasn't bad, after all, if it could be reconciled with football and cars, and cool shit like that, then maybe the way he felt when he saw Robert Pattinson's face wasn't so bad. And maybe the fact that he thought Hummel was prettier than any girl at school wasn't bad.

That was a train of thought Dave hadn't been willing to go down.

And then Coach Beiste came around, and she was so firmly pro-Glee and pro-gay that he didn't know what to do. Because the hockey guys started mocking all of them for having a woman as a coach, started calling _them_ gay and all of a sudden there was no way that gay was any good.

Which meant he was bad.

Which meant he definitely, totally wasn't gay.

Except that he still thought Hummel was the prettiest piece of ass around.

Then had been the kissing thing, and he didn't know why he did it, he really didn't. Except that he was scared, and frustrated, and there was Hummel, just so comfortable and proud. And it wasn't fair, that some little pipsqueak who wore jeans that were _way_ too tight, and who spent _way_ too much time on his hair got to be comfortable and Dave was still so confused.

Anyway. Things have changed since the bomb. All of a sudden the Glee kids are the ones who know what's going on, who have the inside track. All of a sudden the Glee kids have become this tight-knit group, while the Cheerios and the jocks are on the outside looking in.

He's probably the only one _not_ in Glee who isn't surprised when some of them disappear. Puck and Hudson, the annoying soprano, Santana, Hummel and his boyfriend. It's funny, because it's like the popular Gleeks left, and the Lima losers stayed behind.

Except even they know more of what's going on than he does.

So that's where it stands, now. They're all sitting together at a table in the cafeteria – all of them except Chang and Brittany, who are both sick. Their heads are pushed together and they're whispering. It's obvious as fuck that they know something, and Dave can't decide if he wants in or not.

"Look at the homos," Azimio cackles next to him. "Think they're planning out how to put on a fairy show for us?"

"Shut up," Dave growls. His best friend just laughs some more.

"You want to join'em, Karofsky?" Azimio asks. "Try out some spirit fingers?"

Dave just sighs. His friend is kind of a prick, and he knows it. Azimio's been as involved with Glee as he has. He even dated Mercedes for two weeks – said he had to try out all the black chicks he could. But he doesn't let it go, ever, that there's an in crowd and there's an out crowd.

Somehow he hasn't noticed that since the bomb, the Glee kids have become in.

"I'm gonna go see what's up," Dave says. He doesn't wait for Azimio's response. . .it'll probably just be some dumbass knock again.

He sits down next to Sam. They're not friends, exactly, but he figures that they used to play football together, and they've been pretty cool since nationals.

"Oh, hey, Karofsky!" Sam says, greeting him with a hearty clap on the back. "What's up?"

"I was. . .uh. . .kinda hoping you would tell me."

"Just sit around here for another hour or so," Artie says. "Then Sam will forget and we'll have to fill him in again. You can catch up then."

Dave doesn't really know what that means, but he's surprised by how welcoming they're all being, so he doesn't say anything. He just listens to them whispering about McKinley, and police, and what's wrong with Mike, and when the others will get back.

He's so busy trying to put together the half-detailed points of their conversation that he doesn't notice the new kid. Or the old kid, because he's obviously got a few years on Dave. He didn't go to McKinley, he's sure of that.

The kid is just. . .staring at him. Point blank. It's a little uncomfortable, and Dave rolls his shoulders, wishing that the kid would go away, or introduce himself, or just start looking at somebody else. It's seriously uncomfortable.

Suddenly Sam's eyes go blank, and he reaches to pull something out of his back pocket. "Um. . .nuclear war?" he asks.

Dave sits there, in a kind of shock, as Artie rattles off an explanation of everything that's happened. He speaks in short, staccato sentences, and Sam just kind of nods, as if he expects this, is used to it. There's no emotion in Artie's voice as he mentions Mercedes death, or Blaine's surgery (Dave suddenly develops a ton of respect for the little dude, because getting an arm hacked off by a chainsaw is seriously badass). Sam doesn't seem surprised when Artie's talking about the radiation, or the mutations, and he reacts as though puzzle pieces are falling into place when Artie explains Quinn's condition.

When Artie's finally finished, Sam smiles, and it's like the entire world is lighting up. Dave scowls a little. Fairy dust is practically popping from the other boys' too white teeth. He suddenly leans across the table, extending a hand to the boy that Dave doesn't' recognize.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Sam. Sam I am. And I do not like green eggs and ham."

"Jesse st. James," the boy says, leaning over to shake Sam's hand. The whole time he keeps his eyes on Dave.

Creepy.

"I'm the former star of Vocal Adrenaline, and current star of the UCLA Men's Glee Club."

"Nice to meet you," Sam says. He then frowns again, a little of the confusion creeping back into his face. "Where's Brittany and Mike? Didn't you say they were here, too?"

"Sweetie," Quinn says gently, patting his forearm. "They're not feeling well. They're sleeping."

"Well, if they aren't feeling well, we should go bring them soup, or something."

Before anyone can stop him, Sam is up and moving, hurrying to the front of the cafeteria line to grab, presumably, a bowl of soup. Artie just sighs.

"This amnesia thing is getting kind of old," he says.

"Come on," Tina says. "We should be getting back, anyway."

Dave kind of shuffles along behind them. He hasn't finished his lunch yet, so he's stuck walking with half a sandwich hanging out the side. He doesn't want to sit back with Azimio and the other guys. . .it would be like admitting defeat. . .and Coach Sylvester's required calisthenics don't begin for another hour. He doesn't really have anywhere else to go. They don't seem to mind him tagging along, although Tina gives him a couple of weird looks. That might just be because he's dropping lettuce everywhere he goes.

It's fine with him. Lettuce is the worst part of a sandwich, anyway.

It's the creepy Jesse st. James that has him wanting to leave. The guy is _still_ watching him. If Dave didn't know better, he'd think the guy was checking him out. Which was just. . .no. And. . .no.

Because Dave isn't gay. And if he _is _gay (hypothetically), then Jesse is definitely not his type. If he _did_ like guys, he would totally want them thin, and perfectly styled, with an arrogant tilt to the chin and a diva attitude.

An anvil hits him on the head. Jesus Fucking Christ, he has a type. And Jesse st. James fits right into it.

Except that everything was hypothetical, and he totally isn't gay.

Still, he kind of wishes that Kurt and his boyfriend, Blair, were still around, so he could ask them about this. He's never had a gay stalker before. He isn't really sure what to do about it.

All of that is pushed to the back of his mind, however, when they enter the quarantine room. Dave's never been here before, and it's kind of exactly what he would have expected, if he'd actually thought about it and was expecting anything. It's just grey and concrete, like the rest of the bunker. A few cots are pushed up against the wall. There's medical equipment in one corner. It's dark, depressing, and pathetic.

Chang is on one cot, and the blond Cheerio is on another. Neither of them looks very good, Dave doesn't think. They're both pale – too pale, really, and sweaty, and twitchy. He suddenly wishes that he hadn't come in the room. He doesn't do well with death, or sickness, or any of that. Broken bones and blood he can handle, but this is something entirely different, and he doesn't' want to deal with it at all. Not one bit.

Chang is kind of. . .glowing. It's really light, and Dave doesn't think he would have noticed it at all, except that it's somehow more alive than the boy itself. Reminds him o those old Superman movies, where the Kryptonite would glow, casting shadows on everyone's face. He'd always liked Superman, even if the tights were a little homo.

Tina walks over to him, takes his hand. It's second nature, the way the Gleeks just kind of find their positions in the room. It's obvious, even to Dave, that they've spent a lot of time here, that they're very comfortable. He just wants to leave.

"Mike," Tina says, shaking his shoulder just the tiniest bit. "Mike?"

Chang doesn't respond at all. His breathing doesn't hitch, he doesn't move, he doesn't' make any indication that he's noticed his girlfriend is there. Dave frowns. He's a deep sleeper, but that much would wake even him up.

Tina's getting frantic now, and it's attracting everyone's attention. Quinn drifts over, worry contorting her normally pretty face. Artie abandons his girlfriend and limps over. Even Jesse seems concerned.

"He won't wake up," Tina says, and there's a little bit of a whimper in her voice. "Wh-why won't he wake up?"

"I don't. . ." Quinn shakes her head.

"Do it," Artie says. Quinn shakes again, and Sam moves forward to put his hand on her shoulder in a comforting move. Dave inches toward the door. He feels like he's intruding on a very private moment. He knows he shouldn't be here. Nobody wants him here. But Jesse is still blocking the door, and when he backs up into the other man's chest, he instinctively leaps forward again.

Quinn reaches forward one hand, and delicately touches Chang's forearm. When he still doestn' respond, she circles his wrist with her fingers, frowning and biting at her lip.

Dave frowns. He knows how fucked up Quinn currently is. After they'd all arrived back, he'd made a crack about Blair's missing arm, and she'd slapped him. The burn mark still hadn't healed. But Chang _still_ wasn't waking up, although his breath was coming in a strange wheeze, now, almost like he was coughing instead of wheezing.

Tina was frantic, shaking his shoulders and dropping tears on his face. Personally, Dave didn't think that have salty tear goo running down a gullet was the best way to wake up a dude, but he could see the clear panic in her eyes.

"Wake up!" she shouted through her tears. "Please, Mike, wake up!"

Somebody should get an adult. Somebody should get help. Dave moves again, this time thinking not only of escape, but of actually accomplishing something, of actually _doing_ something. But Jesse is still blocking the door, and he doesn't know who to get. Coach Sylvester doesn't know a thing about medicine, and he doubts that Hummel's parents know anything either.

Except. . .isn't one of them a nurse?

"Don't bother," Jesse whispers in his ear, his breath a hot breeze against Dave's skin. "He's only got a few minutes. He's been dying since they got here."

"What?" Dave's neck jerks as he tries to make eye contact with the other boy.

"He's not even glowing now," Jesse says. "Look."

So Dave turns and looks. Jesse isn't lying. . .the light green glow that had previously covered Chang's body is gone. He looks. . .normal again. Just too pale, and tired, and sick. His breathing has settled down. . .light, and too spaced apart.

"Oh my God," Quinn gasps, lifting a hand to her mouth. She looks like she's about to vom. Dave doesn't blame her, even though it's a pretty sissy thing to do. But he's never seen someone _die_ before, and he doesn't want to see it now. So he ducks one shoulder down and _blazes_ through Jesse. He's driving, and he thinks that Coach Beiste would be pretty proud if she saw him. He's pretty sure that he sees Jesse bounce against the door, but by then he's gone, down the hallway.

He runs until he reaches the stairs leading up, out of the bunker, and then he finally lets himself collapse. He's trembling (only more manly, more of a heaving shake) and there's something wet on his face. He brushes the back of his hand against it. Must be sweat. Definitely not tears. Only pansies cry.

He's still sitting there when a blaze of black and blue runs past him, throws itself at the door, screaming and wailing.

"Tina!" Artie's following, but slowly. He won't catch her before she's gone, before she's hurled herself out into the radiation filled wasteland above. Dave doesn't hesitate, because this is the kind of thing he's good at. He drops his shoulder, and reaches out low. Wrap up and drop, he remembers. It's more of a rugby tactic than football, but he assumes that it's equally effective, especially when neither of them are wearing pads.

He brings her to the ground, yanking her hand off the door handle in the process. She's punching at his chest with her little, ineffectual fists.

"Shhh," Dave says, and it's about as comforting as he's ever been. "Just. . .stop crying. Just shut up, okay."

"No no no no no!" Tina is practically screaming now, and her usual soft voice is echoing around the room. She grabs at his shirt and pulls him closer. "Oh, God, and now I can _hear_ them!"

"Hear who?" Artie asks. He's finally made his way up the stairs, foot by painful foo, and he reaches out to take the tiny Asian girl out of Dave's arms.

"_Them_," Tina says. "The ones who want us to go to Washington. But we _can't_ because Mike is. . .Mike is. . ."

And then she's lost again, to falling tears and snot. Dave shakes his head, and looks at Artie.

"Who wants us to go to Washington?" he asks. Artie just shakes his head, and brushes the girl's hair. He presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

"It's okay, baby," he whispers. "It's going to be okay."

"They keep playing that song," Tina whimpers. "Over and over again. . ._Somewhere Only We Know_. . .it was our song. . ."

"Shhh," Artie says. Dave notices that he doesn't tell the girl that it will be okay. Probably because it won't. Dave turns, and throws his fist into the wall beside him. He hears a crack, and thinks that he's probably broken his head. He leaves a red smear behind. Nothing's going to be okay, and everything is fucked up.

When he turns around, Jesse st. James is standing there, and he could _swear_ the other guy was looking at his ass.

**A/N: Poor Dave. . .he's such a weirdo. Absolutely HAD to put his chapter up before tomorrow, when canon will undoubtedly be shot to hell again. Oh well. We all love it.**

**COMING SOON: Puck and Rachel find themselves alone in the world with a baby, and a sick choir teacher. Brittany is holding on for something, Santana finds herself as healed as she can be, Blaine explains the pills, and there be babies!**


	19. Burt

13:57

**A/N: Number one, I am pleased by how many of you enjoyed the Saintofsky. I didn't see that coming, either. And then all of a sudden. . .BAM! CRACK SHIP! Yes, my crack ships will take over. Blaintana will become cannon, as will Saintofsky and. . .that's all I've got. BLAINTANA FTW!**

**As to this chapter. . .nuuuuuuuuuuu. I'm so, so sorry. **

Burt watches as they drive away. The bunker, which had been so filled with teenage noises – flirting, laughing, fighting, gossiping – suddenly echoes in the emptiness. He tenses a little bit as Carole comes up and clutches tightly to his arm.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing?" she asks. Burt nods, tightly, because he does think they're doing the right thing. It's hard, watching the bus filled with cheerleaders and football players pulling away. It's hard staying behind, but he knows that it's right.

Because his boy is still out there. Burt knows that Kurt is okay, knows that he'll be coming back one day. And Burt will be damned if he's not around when his son returns.

"You really think they're okay," Carole murmurs, and when Burt turns to look down at her, there's a gentle smile on her lips. She feels reassured, he realizes. That's good. It's good to know that he can still reassure someone, because he sure doesn't feel so certain himself.

It had been pandemonium when they'd figured it out. Between taking care of the body, and calming down Tina (Burt can still remember the first time he met her – in the basement, clutched tightly to Kurt's side – _God_, that seems like an eternity ago) nobody noticed what she was screaming.

And then they'd all just assumed that she'd gone wonky with grief. It was Sue, of all people, who figured it out, Sue who made her sit down and explain who "they" are and what "it" is and why she hears it when she's up near the door, and not when she's locked safely away in the bunker.

Burt's got it down, now, that something happened to those kids while they were out there, that they've been changed. He thinks he's even nailing down the changes, one by one. But nobody knew about the Asian, he's certain of it.

Shes connected, somehow, to the radio waves – to the two stations that the police and the army have racketed into, and are playing as strongly as they can. The police, for whatever reason, have decided to play some song by Kane or Keine or Keane over and over again. Appropriate lyrics, he supposes, but he doesn't really get how it's supposed to help. Unless the police have given up.

The army is directing everyone to Washington D.C., trying to collect the survivors. Apparently, the capital survived the bombing – wasn't hit at all. When he'd asked why, Sue had grinned, sharp-tongued and angry.

"There's no Glee Club in D.C.," she told him.

As if that made any sense at all.

Nonetheless, as soon as they'd figured it out (and convinced Sue not to cover Tina entirely in aluminum foil to get better transmission) they'd gathered into a school bus and taken out.

Except for him and Carole. Because they were gonna stay and wait for their boys.

A soft cough distracts him, and he turns around to see Artie and Brittany, standing behind them. The poor girl doesn't look so good – she's pale, and sweating, and Burt kind of doesn't understand how she's even on her feet.

"Are they back yet?" she asks. Burt and Carole exchange a glance, and they're clearly thinking the same thing. Moving together, they take the poor girl by the elbows, and help her back downstairs.

Xxx

There's the sound of knocking at the door, and Burt is up and moving almost as soon as he hears it. He was in bed, safely ensconced under the covers, but unable to sleep. It's been two days since everyone left, two days since they were left alone. It's uncomfortable, just him and Carole and two children that aren't theirs, but they're making do.

Still. The knocking.

He pulls the door open, and is reaching out to pull his son into a hug before he realizes that it isn't Kurt.

It isn't even a boy.

Instead he's holding a terrified looking little brunette, who breaks into tears the moment his arms are around her. Reflexively he pats her back, smoothes down the long, dark tresses. He recognizes her, of course. . .she's the star of Kurt's glee club, his archnemesis, as his son likes to term it.

"Shhh," he says gently. "Shhhh. . .it will be okay."

He looks over her shoulder, and sees the mohawked kid standing behind her, a baby clutched tightly in his arms. Burt's eyebrows lift in surprise. He didn't remember a baby when they left. . .didn't remember any pregnancies.

He glances down at the girl again, and tries to remember Kurt's note. It's lying, folded up carefully, on the nightstand next to his bed. He has it memorized, all the names. These two left with his son. His heart is breaking again, because why are the people who return never Kurt?

"Hey, Mr. Hummel," the boy says, shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably. "Can we come in?"

Burt still can't speak, because there's still something stuck in the back of his throat, but he moves back and lets them walk in. Their footsteps echo ominously in the empty halls. The kids, exhausted and sick looking, catch on immediately.

"Where is everyone?" the boy asks.

He doesn't get an answer, however, because Carole is there, suddenly, swooping in like a saving angel. She grabs the girl into a hug, and seizes the baby.

"She' so precious," she coos, and Burt's heart is warmed a little, seeing the woman he loves holding the tiny, darling bundle. She isn't precious, though, he notices. She's pale, colorless. . .another gift from radiation and the bomb, he thinks. He wonders how sick the baby is, whether she'll even live.

The boy coughs. "That's Beth," he says. "My daughter."

Burt wonders if anyone at McKinley ever gave these kids a sex talk.

"Mr. Schue," the girl sniffs, and the boy jerks up, a slightly crazed look in his eyes.

"Um. . .Mr. Hummel, I've got to run back outside. We kind of, uh, forgot our choir director."

Burt goes with him, helps to recover the sweating, trembling man that he remembers as being one of the few concerned teachers at his son's school. He drops him off in quarantine, where Brittany and Artie stare at him curiously.

"Is Mr. Schue a zombie?" Brittany whispers. Artie shrugs.

"I don't know," he says.

Carole is in seventh heaven, with a baby, and a sick man, and a sobbing girl. She's dashing around, making soup and warming bottles, and insisting that everyone shower and rest. Burt just sticks his hands in his pockets and stares at the door, waiting for another knock.

Xxx

Another two days pass. Rachel and Puck are considering taking the baby and heading down to Washington D.C. Burt wonders when these teenagers became adults, so willing to strike out on their own. He notices that Rachel glances at the door, too.

Carole begs them to stay, to wait. She tells them that it isn't safe, that they could get into massive trouble. There could be car problems, or road blocks. They don't know how to care about a baby, and if they wait they can all go down together.

Burt ignores most of it, and watches the door.

The knock comes on the third day. Burt almost doesn't hear it, because he's on baby duty while Carole is checking the choir director's temperature, and trying to convince Brittany to take in more fluids, and trying to convince Artie to keep up with his physical therapy. He's holding the little baby, and marveling at her. She's nothing like Kurt, who'd been all pink and squirmy. She just lies there, staring up at him with colorless eyes, popping out a colorless tongue to lip at chalkwhite lips. But when she smiles her eyes still sparkle, and her laugh is as joyous as any baby.

It's Rachel who makes it to the door first, who flings it open and jumps out, leaping into the arms of the first person she sees. It happens to be Finn which, Burt figures, is probably for the best. His stepson grabs her tightly, and drowns himself in her hair.

The Hispanic girl is right behind, and she pushes her way in, rushing almost immediately to Quarantine. There's another boy there, too, an Asian that Burt only vaguely remembers. He'd probably seen him at a parent teachers conference night, or at some performance or another. He's still looking for his son, praying that Kurt made it back, that. . .

And then his arms are _full_ of his son, and he's trying to make sure he doesn't crush the baby while trying to grasp every inch of Kurt he can reach.

"I know you'd be here," Kurt sniffed into his neck. "I knew you wouldn't leave. They wanted us to go to D.C. with them, but I couldn't because I knew you'd be waiting."

"Of course I waited," Burt says thickly. "Of course I did."

By now Carole's arrived, and she takes Rachels' place, receiving the hug. There's so much laughing and hugging that Burt almost forgets how pissed he is that the kids all took off without telling anyone.

"Who's the baby?" Finn suddenly asks, and then Carole is trying to explain everything, the baby and Mr. Schue, and. . .

Blaine almost makes it in without anybody noticing. He's got his arm tightly wound around his middle, and he's grimacing a little in discomfort. Burt reaches out a hand and puts it solidly on the boys shoulder. "Thanks for bringing my boy home safe," he says.

"Any time, Mr. Hummel," Blaine says, a little cheekily. Burt scowls a little, but then Kurt is ducking under the boys arm, and leans over to give him a peck on the cheek.

"Dad," he drawls. "Don't scare off my boyfriend."

That word should terrify Burt. It should set off all his protective dad alarms, and make him want to take a swing at the kid, or get out his shotgun, or issue a terrifying speech. Instead, he just notices how bright Kurt's eyes are, and how Blaine's fingers curl up around Kurt's shoulders, and how both of them are sporting bright red cheeks.

"I'm happy for you," Burt says, a little surprised at the raw honesty. He turns around, then, to wipe at a tear in his eye, because his son has never seen him cry, and never will. He still notices Blaine reach up on tiptoes to kiss Kurt, though. It just makes the tear come out faster.

They all end up in quarantine, somehow. Mr. Schuester is up, takes to the careful ministrations of Carole, and baby Beth is being passed around. Rachel is cuddled up under Finn's arm, a sad little smile on her face.

Santana is sitting on the bed beside Brittany, gently pushing blond hairs to the side. "She looks so peaceful," the Hispanic girl says, a little wistfully.

"She's not well," Carole says, and her tone is regretful. Burt knows what that tone means. She's dying. Bit by bit, piece by piece. He's seen it, his wife's seen it, and he even thinks poor Artie has seen it. The girls' been fighting, battling with a warrior's spirit, but looking at the shallow rise and fall of her chest, Burt thinks the battle might be nearly over.

"She's the only one who really gets me, who really loves me," Santana says. Her fingertips brust against Brittany's cheek, and the girl finally opens her eyes.

"Hey, Santana," she says breathlessly.

"Hey, you."

They sit in silence for a moment. Burt's holding his breath, because this feels like the end, it feels like something solemn is happening, and he remembers that song that Tina kept singing.

_This could be the end of everything _

_ So why don't we go, somewhere only we know_

Santana leans down, and gently brushes her lips against the other girls. "I love you," she whispers.

"Mmm," Brittany sighs. "Sweet lady kisses."

"She's been waiting for you," Artie says, and Burt's head whips to the side. The boy's face is utterly ravaged, devastated, but he stands up and walks over to his girlfriend. Tears are running down his face as he holds her hand, and brings it up to his face. He kisses each knuckle, one, two three four and places it down again.

"I love you, pretty young thing," he says, and then does what must be the hardest thing any boy has ever done.

He walks out the door.

Finn gasps, grabs Rachel's hand, and follows him out. And then Burt gets it. He stares at the two girls, seated so close, and grabs Carole's hand.

"Come on," he whispers. She shakes her head.

"No, no, she's not well, I have to stay here, I have to help. . ."

"There ain't nothing else you can do," Burt says. She nods then, a little helplessly, and clutches his arm as they hobble out.

They're all standing in the hallway, then, awkward and uncomfortable. Carole's hair smells like strawberries beneath Burt's chin. Finn is holding a shaking Rachel in his arms, and Kurt and Blaine are clutching at each other like ships in storms. Puck is holding his baby, and Artie, poor Artie, is just staring at the door.

_Oh simple thing, where have you gone?_

_ I'm getting old and I need something to rely on_

It feels like an eternity before the door opens and Santana walks out. Mascara tracks mar her face, oil leaking out of an engine. Burt releases Carole, suddenly needing to comfort this poor, naked girl.

But he's too late. Blaine is there first, clutching her tightly to him. And then Kurt is there, and Finn, and Rachel, Puck and even Artie.

"She loved me," Santana gasps. "She loved me and now she's gone."

"Shhh," Burt hears someone say, but he doesn't know who. "shhh. . .I love you, too."

And then another voice, and another. They stand there for several minutes, before finally breaking into a strange little huddle to walk toward Sue Sylvester's room. Burt wonders why, until he goes to check on them later in the night.

They're huddled in one big mass on the bed – the biggest one in the complex, of course. They're all wearing clothes, which pleases Burt, because despite everything they're still _kids_. They're a mess of limbs and half-buttoned shirts. They're clutching each other in their sleep, and Burt's heart swells a little when he sees his son in the middle of it.

Burt would never, ever wish for the bombs to fall again, but he remembers the world before, when Kurt was isolated and alone, picked on for who he was. He remembers the uncomfortable family that they were, the way Kurt and Finn danced around each other. The bombs have destroyed so much, but they've solidified some things, too.

Friends.

Family.

Love

_Somewhere only we know. . ._

They leave in the morning for D.C.

**A/N: Why is this story so SAD? I DON'T KNOW!**

**In other news, this is the end. THE END OF EVERYTHING! There is an epilogue. The epilogue is possibly the saddest thing ever. But also happy. But mostly sad. I may post it later tonight, because I don't want it hanging over my head forever. So, thanks to those of you who stuck it through both stories – I've loved the reviews, the alerts, the favorites, etc. I also invited you to read Triwizard Tournaments and Treble Clefs, which is my version of Glee at Hogwarts. All of my favorite ships are present, which means lots of Klaine, Finchel, Quam, ST. KAROFSKY and BLAINTANA! BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA. **


	20. Beth

13:57

**A/N: Enjoy!**

Beth doesn't remember a time before the bombs. She doesn't remember a world with blue skies or green grasses. She only knows what she's seen in picture books that her Daddy rescued her from old libraries and schools. Her world is dirt skies and blood-red ground. It's dust everywhere.

She doesn't remember a time with a thousand fresh fruits and vegetables, a world where a person could go to the supermarket and get whatever he wants. Her world is carefully regulated, green houses churning out veggies by season, and meat only on the special holidays. Hers is a world where a steak is only for birthdays, and ham is only for Easter.

She doesn't remember a world where a stranger is a potential friend. She doesn't remember a world where it's exciting to meet new people. Her is a world of mistrust and only the Community is safe, and only the Community is home.

Beth doesn't remember the time before the bombs, but neither does anybody else. Nobody but Babbitt, that is. Babbitt still remembers. He's the only one who does.

Beth used to ask him questions, back when she was younger, but it's now her students who are sent to Babbitt to write their history essays. One day her children's students will go to him, and then their children after that. Because Babbitt is always and forever.

Beth doesn't remember a time before the bombs, but she doesn't remember a time before Babbitt, either, and she thinks that's probably okay.

Xxx

Beth's mother dies when she's only five years old. She doesn't know what's happening at the time. She just knows that her stepmother is holding her, tight against one warm thigh, and her father won't stop crying. Everyone in the Community is crying, and Beth doesn't understand why. Her mother's only sleeping.

"Oh, honey, _linda_," her stepmother says, hugging her tight. "It's going to okay. You're going to be fine."

Of course she's going to be fine, Beth thinks. She isn't the one crying. She's the only one, though. Even Grandpappy is dabbing at wet eyes, and he never cries.

They all make a line, and file by her sleeping mother. Beth looks down, and wishes she were as beautiful. Her mother is perfect, with long blonde hair and hazel eyes. Nothing like her. Beth knows she's different. She's white, all white, everywhere, and nobody else looks like her. It doesn't matter how many times her Daddy or stepmommy tell us, she knows she's not beautiful. Because her mother is beautiful, and Beth doesn't look anything like her.

Nobody ever tells her that she has her mother's eyes, or her mother's smile. Nobody ever says she's the spitting image, or a chip off the old block. Sometimes they tell her that she has her mother's spirit, though, or her talent, or her kindness. But Beth doesn't remember her mother as having a spirit, or talent, or kindness. Mother was just a woman who stood in the corner of a room and looked at her with sad, sad eyes, while Funny Sam held her gingerly by the elbow.

The days after Mother's funeral are even worse. Everyone is walking around with red-rimmed eyes, and they're all afraid to talk to her. Everybody brings by casseroles, and they're all absolutely awful, except the one that Uncle Finn brings over. That one is made of Oreos and gummy worms, and Beth thinks that it's the most delicious thing that she's ever tasted in her entire life.

Funny Sam is the only one she doesn't mind talking to, in those days, because he's the only one not crying. Every few hours, though, he'll look at her, with this kind of confused light in his eyes, and ask her where her mother is.

She pretends not to know.

Xxx

The next time the whole community is gathered together is happier. There's a new baby, the first new baby ever, and Beth is excited to no longer be the youngest. She's six years old, and she' dressed in the most beautiful pink dress that Uncle Kurt made for her. He told her that he was making it for his wedding, because she was going to be a flower girl, but she could wear it a little early to see the new baby.

Beth thinks that baby's must be the most beautiful things in the entire world, because everyone is talking about them and smiling. Even her dad is smiling, and talking to her stepmommy about adding on to their family, and reading her story books all about baby dolls and baby socks and baby shoes.

When she sees it, though, she doesn't think it's very beautiful at all. It's face is all scrunched up, and it won't stop screaming. Every time it opens its mouth, all of the adults laugh, and turn to one another.

"Well, he definitely takes after Rachel," they say.

"Before or after the bomb?" they say.

"Both," they say, and start laughing again. Aunt Rachel's face is almost as red as the baby's, but not as wrinkled or ugly.

Even Aunt Tina is there, sitting in her wheelchair. Uncle Artie is pushing it, and he keeps whispering things to her about irony. Beth doesn't understand that at all.

"I think he hit a perfect C," Uncle Jesse says. Uncle Dave whacks him in the shoulder, and Daddy glances at her, to make sure she isn't paying attention. Beth pretends to be looking at the baby's mini toes. Daddy tells her not to hit people, but Uncle Dave is hitting Uncle Jesse all the time. Beth thinks that maybe it's okay if you follow the hit up with a kiss to make it all better.

Xxx

Uncle Kurt's wedding is the best thing ever, except that Aunt Tina can't come, bcause she's home sick, and Uncle Artie stays with her. Beth walks down the aisle first. She doesn't spread flowers, because there are no flowers in her world, but Uncle Kurt has made beautiful origami out of paper, and she throws that around, instead. She's wearing her beautiful pink dress and all eyes are on her.

She sits down in the front row next to Daddy, who pats her on the knee. She squirms a little, trying to see down the aisle. Mommy and Uncle Wes come down next, their elbows linked. Mommy is looking fat, but she says it's because there's a baby in her belly. Beth hasn't decided if she wants to meet the new baby or not. As long as it's not like baby Hiram, who is quietly hiccupping behind her.

Uncle Finn and Aunt Rachel come down together next, smiling and looking happy. Aunt Rachel isn't pretty, not like Beth's mommy. . .her nose is too big and her mouth is too wide. But she's still prettier than Beth, because her cheeks are pink and her eyes are brown.

Uncle Kurt and Uncle Blaine come down last, and Beth sighs. She thinks that Uncle Blaine is the most amazing man in the entire world, except for her Daddy, maybe. He only has one arm, but he still picks her up and throws her over his shoulder for plane rides, and gives her Eskimo kisses on her tummy. She thinks that if she doesn't marry Daddy when she's older, she might marry Uncle Blaine. She doesn't think that Uncle Kurt will mind sharing.

They're all standing around Coach Sylvester, who tells them that love is stupid and a waste of their time, but if they're going to bother with it, might as well bother with it together, because at least their gay babies will be mildly attractive. Her uncles just smile through all of it, Uncle Kurt holding Uncle Blaine's hand in both of his.

Everyone is crying again, but this it isn't sad crying this time, it's happy, Beth thinks, because everyone is still smiling. Daddy squeezes her hand, and everyone is cuddling. Grandpappy is bawling his eyes out, and Gramma keeps handing him tissues with a little grin on her face. Uncle Dave is wiping his eyes with Uncle Jesse's sleeve. Then it's over, and her uncles kiss, both of them with red cheeks. Mommy leans forward and kisses Uncle Blaine, too. Beth glances up to see if Daddy is mad, but he's just laughing, big, thick, long belly laughs.

Xxx

When Quinn is eight, Aunt Tina dies, and Uncle Artie dies a few days later. Uncle Finn gets sick.

Nobody wants to talk about it, and Beth doesn't know why.

But Beth doesn't remember a time before the bomb.

Xxx

When Beth is nine her mommy is having another baby, and this time Beth knows that she doesn't want a baby, because everyone thinks that Baby Brittney is prettier than her, and she doesn't need any competition.

Mommy tries to explain that this baby isn't for their family, that this baby is for Uncle Blaine and Kurt, but that doesn't make Beth any happier. She doesn't want Uncle Blaine to love the new baby more than he loves her.

"Don't worry, boo," Uncle Kurt says when she's visiting one afternoon. He's standing at the stove, putting together dinner for the Community. "Blaine thinks the moon rises and sets with you. No baby is going to change that."

"But this baby will be part of your family," Beth says, with a tremble in her lip. "Daddy always says that you love your family best of all."

Kurt puts down his spatula, and leans forward, giving her a gentle tap on the nose. "We're all a family, boo," he says. "This whole community. Blaine and I love you just as much as we're going to love that baby."

Blaine comes in, then, pulling off his jacket with a sigh, and throwing it over a table. He gives Beth a kiss on the forehead, and then Kurt another on the lips.

"Mmm," Kurt says. "You taste like strawberry shampoo."

Blaine turns to Beth and puts one finger on his lips, whispering "Shhhh." It's a game they play, hiding his kisses from Uncle Kurt. When Beth was younger, she really believed it. Now she knows better, but she still likes the game.

"Here," Kurt says, handing two small pills to Uncle Blaine. Her favorite uncle grimaces, but dutifully swallows them. Uncle Kurt looks worried.

"You're almost out," he says. Uncle Blaine grins, and leans forward to steal another kiss.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."

Xxx

Funny Sam is getting less funny. He's remembering things, and it's making him sad, and even Beth notices. He doesn't ask where Quinn is, anymore, and when someone mentions her name he looks like his heart is breaking. Beth thinks she understands. She saw Angel kiss Sarah at school, and she thought her heart might be breaking, too.

Of course he liked Sarah better. She was taller, and older, and had pretty black hair.

She wasn't all day-glo white.

Xxx

When Uncle Finn dies everything stops. Grammy doesn't come in to school, and Daddy doesn't go to the greenhouse. Only Uncle Kurt keeps working, bringing soup around to everyone and encouraging them to eat.

Aunt Rachel stops singing, which Beth thinks is probably all right, but everyone seems to think is the sign of the apocalypse.

His funeral is nothing like anyone else's. Nobody says anything, they just stare at his body. Beth glances over at little five year old Hiram. She remembers how her mother died when she was five, and she didn't care. But Hiram seems to care. He's confused, and tiny, and just keeps asking why his daddy won't wake up.

But nobody notices Hiram, because they're all folded in to their own grief and loss. So Beth goes over to him, and folds him up in her arms, and rocks him back and forth.

"Maybe you guys. . ." Grandpappy is trying to talk, but it's hard for him, and the words are coming out stuttered and short. "Maybe you guys should sing for him. It seemed to help."

Aunt Rachel doesn't move.

It's Beth's mom who starts, who takes a step forward, and a deep breath, and starts to sing.

_"Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world_

_She took the midnight train goin' anywhere,"_

Beth is surprised, because she's never heard this song before. Usually her mom just sings soft lullabies to Brittany, or jazzy little ditties as she goes around doing chores. She doesn't usually belt songs out. Beth thinks she likes it.

Then her dad starts to sing.

_"Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit_

_ He took the midnight train goin' anywhere_"

Everyone is smiling a little bit now, and Beth hugs Hiram closer to her chest. He sticks a thumb in his mouth. She knows that he's not supposed to suck his thumb, that Aunt Rachel's being trying to get him to quit, but she thinks right now it's okay. Uncle Blaine and Uncle Kurt step forward, then, laying their hands on Rachel's shoulders.

"_A singer in a smoky room_

_ A smell of wine and cheap perfume_

_ For a smile they can share the night_

_ It goes on and on and on and on_"

And then everyone is singing. Uncle Dave and Uncle Jesse are holding hands, and Uncle Dave looks a little uncomfortable, but Uncle Jesse is definitely into it. And Funny Sam is singing, and Wes and Thad, and everyone in the Community, even the ones who don't sing.

Just Aunt Rachel is sitting there, silent.

_"Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard_

_ Their shadows searching in the night_

_ Streetlights, people, living just to find emotion_

_ Hiding, somewhere in the night_

_ Don't stop believing_

_ Hold on to the feeling_

_ Streetlights people."_

They're voices fade off in gentle harmony, and Beth suddenly wishes, more than anything before, that she could remember a time before the bomb. A time when everyone used to sing and there were thousands of different songs. But she can't.

Everyone is leaving when Beth hears it. Quiet and faint.

"_Don't stop believing_

_ Hold on to that feeling_

_ Streetlights, people. . ._"

When she turns around, Aunt Rachel's lips are closed again, but for just one moment she'd heard.

Xxx

Funny Sam dies next.

Then Daddy gets sick.

Xxx

When Beth is thirteen years old, Grammy gives them all an assignment to interview someone who remembers the world before the bombs. Beth isn't sure who she wants to ask. She'd talk to her Daddy, but he spends all day in bed, coughing. Mom is worried, even though she doesn't say so.

She thinks about asking Grandpappy, but that would be weird, since Grammy gave them the assignment. She thinks about Uncle Jesse, but he kind of gives her the creeps, and Uncle Dave is just scary. There's always Aunt Rachel, but she's so busy now, taking care of Hiram and running for Community president, that she never seems to have enough time for anyone else.

So Beth goes to interview Uncle Blaine.

She doesn't have a crush on him anymore, although she still thinks he's the most handsome man in the Community (except for maybe Angel, who grew another foot over the summer). She finds him sitting down at a table with Uncle Kurt, who is bouncing baby Elizabeth on his knee. Beth isn't jealous, even though Elizabeth is the most beautiful baby in the entire Community. It's impossible to be jealous of a baby with Uncle Blaine's hair and her mom's eyes.

"Promise me," Uncle Kurt says, and his tone is fierce. Beth pauses for a moment just outside the doorway. She doesn't want to go in until they're done talking. . .she doesn't think it would be polite.

"Kurt. . ." Blaine sighs. "It's always there, tugging at me. When I'm with you I can ignore it, but. . ."

"No," Kurt says. "Promise me you'll never think of it again."

"I can't make that promise."

"Then promise me, even if you think of it, you won't go through with it. We have Elizabeth, now. She needs you."

"I'll try."

"Promise me."

"Kurt. . ."

"Promise me."

Beth walks in, then, because she thinks that maybe Uncle Blaine would like to be saved from the conversation. She tells him about the project, and he promises to help out, with sparkling hazel eyes. As he stands to leave, though, Uncle Kurt grabs him by one sleeve.

Blaine sighs and leans down to capture the other man's lips in a kiss. "I promise," he whispers.

Xxx

Her dad dies when she's fifteen. They bury him next to the others, with a gravestone that simply says "Noah."

Aunt Rachel sings a song that Beth doesn't know. Nobody cries. They're all too tired to cry.

Xxx

Beth doesn't remember a world before the bombs. She doesn't remember a world where there are museums filled with art, a world where colors are trying to imitate life, and not the other way around. She doesn't remember a world with television or movies, color splashed everywhere. The palette of her life is greys and oranges, rust and dirt.

Her mom is the one who teaches her how to paint. Mom's painting is strange, funny. She likes to paint people, with haloes all around them, or paint scenes that are all one color. She paints a funny pink flower, with little acorns all around it.

"That's uncle Kurt," she says.

One day she paints a series of green things with brown stumps. "A forest," she tells Beth, even though the only forest that Beth has ever seen was filled with tall grey sticks. Her mom adds in a little brook, also green, and a winking green sun.

"That's uncle Blaine," she says.

There are a thousand other paintings, as well. Stormy seas for her daddy, and calm skies for Uncle Finn, pebble beaches for her real mom, and pink rainbows for Aunt Rachel.

In every single painting, in the lower left hand corner, her mom always paints a single daisy.

"Who is that?" Beth asks, but her mom never tells her.

One day, her mom begins a new painting, and it's different than all the other ones. There's a heart in the middle, but it's painting with every color, one blending into another, a dizzying blend that makes Beth's heart stop and ache. She reaches one finger out to touch it, the wet paint clinging to her finger. She leaves a perfec mark in the middle, and instantly feels horrible. But her mom just laughs and hugs her tight.

"Now it's finished," she says with finality. "That one's you."

Xxx

By the time Beth is twenty, most of her family is gone. Grandpappy explains to her about the radiation, about how everyone who had been in it got very sick. It's not hard to put the pieces together, as she looks at herself in the mirror: white skin, white hair, white eyes. She was out there, too.

She goes to ask Uncle Blaine why she isn't sick, and he looks at her with sad, sad eyes.

"If I knew, I wouldn't be here," he says, and she wonders what that means.

Xxx

By the time she's forty, some of the others are beginning to die, too, though it's not of the same sickness anymore. Grammy goes first, because she's old, and Grandpappy follows a few years later.

Then Coach Sue.

Then Mr. Schuester.

She finds herself spending more and more time at Uncle Blaine's house, because there's something familiar there. It reminds her of her childhood.

She feels like she's caught, somehow, between these two worlds. She doesn't remember the world before the bombs, but she's still of it. It still touched her. She doesn't understand these new children, this new generation. Even Brittany, her own sister, is confusing.

They don't stare at her mom's paintings in wonder, or muse about music.

They're building, innovating, designing, creating, and Beth feels like she doesn't quite fit in.

The kids are having kids, and when they have to write essays on the past, they all go to Blaine to interview. He asks them to call him Babbitt.

"Why Babbitt?" Beth asks him.

"It's what I used to call my grandpa," he says.

Sometimes Elizabeth comes to visit, too, and when she's there, Blaine lights up. When she has a daughter, Blaine is alive again, singing and dancing, and making the goofy faces that Beth remembers from her childhood. But when they leave he becomes quiet again. He likes to rest his hands on the piano, and play gentle chords.

"Why are you still here, Babbitt?" Beth asks him one night from where she's sprawled out on his sofa.

"Because I made a promise," he says.

Xxx

When Beth is seventy, she moves in with Babbitt. The new generations have begun fixing the above-ground. They have special air conductors that move the dust away and allow in sunlight. They're beginning to grow grass, and flowers.

"We should go up and see it, Babbitt," Beth says. He agrees, and they go up.

Sure enough, nobody had been lying. There are blades of grass sticking up through what was once rust and grey. Beth feels laughter bubbling up within her, and when she turns to look at Babbitt, she sees his white teeth flashing through his dark beard. His hazel eyes are shining, and his black curls gleam in the sun. She remembers falling in love with him when she was six years old.

"Can you not die?" she asks him that day, when they've run off their energy and are lying, supine in the new, green grass. "Is that why you're still here."

"I can still die," he says. He pulls a rock off the ground, and lifts up his shirt a little. He slashes it against the flesh there, and red blood wells. Beth pretends not to notice the scars beneath it.

Wonderingly, she reaches out a hand for the rock. Without a word, he hands it over. With her fingers trembling, she runs it in a hard line against her wrist. It burns, and her skin parts, but no blood falls out. By the time she's dropped the rock, the skin has healed over.

"I don't think I can," she whispers.

Xxx

When she's a hundred, she's tired. She finds Babbitt, sitting on a rock, looking out over the cold waves of Lake Erie.

"It's time to go," he says. "My daughter is dead. My grandchildren are dead. My Kurt is dead. I've finished my promise. It's tiem to go."

Beth leans forward and plants a soft kiss on his lips.

"I'm going to miss you."

Xxx

Beth doesn't remember a time before the bombs. She doesn't remember blue skies or green grass. She doesn't remember children jumping rope at recess, or strangers smiling at one another just to say hello. She doesn't remember a world before dust and concrete, and hacking lungs. She doesn't remember a world where people die every year, and loneliness is just a part of it all.

But when she's a hundred and twenty she walks on the beach of Lake Michigan, and sees a bird. Her heart clenches, thuds, stops.

She doesn't remember a time before the bombs, but she thinks she's going to see the rebirth after them. She may be the only one who does. She picks up a rock, and throws it into the water. It only makes one ripple. She finds her lips curving to sing the one song she knows by heart.

"_Just a small town girl, living in the lonely world_

_ She takes a midnight train going anywhere"_

She plans to stop, until she hears a voice behind her, pitched low and soothing.

_"Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit_

_ He takes the midnight training going anywhere_"

She turns around and he's standing there, with alabaster arms and marble lips. He glows in the dingy sunlight.

"Hi," she says. "I'm Beth."

He smiles and shakes her hand. "Hi, Beth. I'm Drizzle."

It should be a stupid name, but in this new world after the bomb, it somehow makes sense

**A/N: Hope you've all enjoyed this story as much as I have. Very therapeutic.**

**Also, go check out my newest story, Triwizard Tournaments and Treble Clefs. Glee at Hogwarts. . .not very angsty, either. Phew. Kind of a relief after this beast. Thanks, once again for all the reviews and love! **


	21. Author's Note

13:57

**Totally not a new update (Sorry! It really is over!). However, I got a number of questions on reviews, so I thought I would answer them (finally!)**

**So, first up: Sam's power. Sam was able to see flashes of the future. I just thought it was a nice little juxtaposition to his inability to regularly remember the past. I anticipated doing more with it, and then just realized that I was getting distracted from the themes and forward momentum of the story. Sorry for dropping it!**

**Blaines' power: Basically, Blaine's body rejected death. Age didn't affect him the same way that it does normal humans: he aged at a slower rate (but did still age, as some of you noted!). He had an extraordinary ability to heal. That being said, he was not immortal. He did eventually kill himself. (And how about that – spending his whole life fighting against depressive and suicidal tendencies, and then having no choice but to succumb!)**

**Drizzle: Drizzle isn't specifically anybody's child. He's just another person like Beth, someone incredibly young, who probably shouldn't have survived the nuclear apocalypse, but did. I probably shouldn't have named him Drizzle – I have no doubt that just contributed to the confusion. My bad. I just wanted some reminder that there was an outside world: everything wasn't just the Community put together in Washington D.C.**

**Kurt: I didn't mention Kurt's death. Kurt did die. Basically, Beth only recounts the deaths that had the greatest impact one her: the earliest deaths, when she first came to understand that people die, and then the people closest to her. Since she was raised by Puck and Santana, neither of whom were particularly close to Kurt in this 'verse, I assume that Kurt's death would have been a blip compared to the others.**

**Who died? Who didn't: Everyone exposed to radiation died young – with the exception of Blaine and Beth. Anyone in the bunker with Sue lived normal lives: Burt, Carole, Karofsky, Jesse, etc. The Warblers, though they were underground, also presumably died young, since several of the blasts were actually located IN the city.**

**Thanks once again to everyone for reading and reviewing! You just made me reread it myself. . .I forgot how much I loved this story! I loved writing it, loved the responses I got. . .just fantastic! Also, if you enjoyed this, I highly recommend "Concrete Jungles". It's a future story, rather than a crazy destructive AU, but it features the same characters, and will eventually feature the same relationships, and don't worry – plenty of angst!**


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